


it's getting late (to give you up)

by TheShadowsAreNotWatching



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hockey, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, domesticity as a love language, himbos, literary foils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowsAreNotWatching/pseuds/TheShadowsAreNotWatching
Summary: Turns out Jack Zimmerman ain't the only one with a sweet thing from Georgia.(Or, the epic love story of Kent "Parse" Parson and Mikheil "Scraps" Kvaratskhelia)
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Scraps (Check Please!)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 166





	it's getting late (to give you up)

  1. **START DEC 2016**



This is not the most uncomfortable Kent has ever been, but only because he has to play charity golf with Bad Bob every summer and also that one time when Scraps butt-dialed his uncle during sex.

But, looking out at his GM, owner, owner’s wife, and the head of PR, sitting next to his teammate/long-term fuck buddy/uhhh possibly some other word, being asked to explain his like… emotions, Kent thinks this is a pretty easy third. Longingly, Kent thinks back to his imagined coming outs which were always more of a shove than a stroll out of the closet. A hook-up leaks secretly taken pictures, a teammate from Juniors shows proof from that one time he and Zimms got handsy at a party, Kent starts drunk tweeting. Props to Zimms to having the imagination to kiss his twink under the Stanley Cup, Kent _never_ would’ve imagined coming out like that—a choice, a spectacle, a fucking display T-B-Explained to management later.

Kent never thought he’d have to explain himself to anyone other than asshole press he’d refuse to comment to. More importantly, he was really counting on the fall-out only ever affecting him. Scraps sat next to him, looking comedically oversized among the ultra-modern furniture, large hands white-knuckle gripping delicate metal chair arms. Scrappy deserved exactly none of this. His… Scrappy looked at him, brown eyes confused as always, looking towards him for the play as always. Why was a 6’4 man with the facial geography of a battlefield cute?

That’s the thing about Scrappy. He had all this faith in Kent, on and off the ice. Scraps would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the sharpest knife and maybe that explains why Scrappy thought a) Kent was worth trusting b) Kent was worth following and c)

“I’m sorry, I know this is stressful, but could you put in your own words what your relationship is?” Sofia Thantley’s tone is really nice and she looks really nice in a pretty princess pink dress and Kent absolutely does not trust her or her husband.

“I love him” Scrappy _immediately_ blurts out. Buddy, what happened to reading the play?

Jesus. Maybe move this up to uncomfortable situation number one.

**DEC 2016- CONT**

Relationship is such a loaded word. Relationship. Relationship. Say it enough and it doesn’t even sound like a word. Scraps has a relationship with his lesbian neighbors who he plays parcheesi with. Kent has a relationship with his mom who he calls once a week and sees twice a year. Kent and Scrappy have a relationship not only with each other, but approximately nineteen other dumbasses whom they spend most of their lives with.

This is not the kind of relationship anyone is interested in. They are asking about a _relationship_ relationship. Which is nebulous. What makes a relationship? The people in it? Is it the history or is it the sum of its parts or is it something new?

Twenty years ago, Kendra Parson watches her husband and the father of her two children walk out the door.

Twenty-one years ago, Mikheil Kvaratskhelia is sent from his family’s struggling vineyard to live with his uncle, the perpetual bachelor, in the city.

Seven years ago, Kent waits in an emergency room to see if his first boyfriend is going to make it.

Five years ago, Kent and Scrappy kiss. It’s not good.

Various time points over five years: Kent and Scrappy kiss, it _is_ good.

A few months ago: Jack kisses _his_ first boyfriend on center ice.

Can you unravel a tapestry by pulling on one thread? Breakdown a game into players. Breakdown a play into diagrams. Slow-down the tape to focus on the singular movement of a flick of the wrist. Can you ever really explain a part? Can you ever really explain a whole?

Scrappy: I love him. Well, fuck. That makes it simple.

  1. **DEC 2016- EVEN MORE CONT**



“We’re in a romantic relationship and have been since last year” Kent’s voice is calm. He doesn’t bolt. He doesn’t even insult anyone.

“Son, do you want your agent here?” Stephen Thantley asks. Stephen is exactly 17 years older than Kent’s… Scrappy, technically owns Kent (or, at least Kent’s team), and needs to shut the fuck up.

“Well, my agent told me to never tell anyone when _he_ found out I was gay, and then sent me an email after the Providence cup win with the subject line ‘Damage Control and Distancing Strategies’ so, I’m going to go with… probably not”

Scrappy looks alarmed at this, “Kent. Get new agent.”

“He’s really good during contract negotiations” Tom is too professional of a GM to react, but Stephen points and nods. “Also, your agent is worse than mine.”

“Do you know how hard it is to find agent who speaks Georgian? Do you know how many _Georgian_ hockey players they are in the major leagues?”

“He threw a fit at you using _pride tape_ , I just think—”

“Boys” Maxine says in her ‘PR means wrangling adult toddlers’ voice “Not the time.”

Jim just rubs his eyes. It’s been a long 24 hours for all of them. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t see this coming with the two of you. I mean, maybe Parson and Swoops—

(Scraps nods. That’s fair.)

“—but I just. I don’t think anyone expected this—us, or the people who drafted you.”

“I mean. If you expected this when you drafted us, you wouldn’t have drafted us.” Kent says.

**II. DRAFTS AND OTHER NONSENSE**

**1) 1990-2009**

Once upon a time, there was an absolute bastard of a man. Well, at this point, kid. And he wasn’t really an absolute bastard because at this point, he was still soft; he didn’t know to hurt, and he didn’t know how to be hurt. Those were lessons he would learn in time.

(He was still a bastard though-- his sperm donor and his mom tied the knot after he was born and that guy left(ish) when the bastard was 6, right after Kelly was born. Whatever. They were better off without him.)

There is no kingdom for bastard children to inherit. But it turns out with luck and talent and a favor from the King of the realm, even the bastard could rise to be a knight. And so, he did. He slew trolls and dragons. He met the prince. (He fell in love with the prince.) (He watched the prince die.)

See, the prince was inflicted with a terrible curse. And the curse slowly consumed him; the prince became weak, fragile, _delicate_. Even the Power of True Love (™) couldn’t save him. But it was okay. Because the bastard knight would venture far, far away and quest and find a way to make it better and save the prince and everything would be good, and the bastard knight could be happy.

It was going to be okay. Or at least, that’s what Kent told himself at the draft.

a) 2004

Mikheil was not the first Georgian NHL player.

He was the second.

The first was his uncle.

No pressure.

**a)- redo- 2004**

Mikheil Kvaratskhelia is wildly uncomfortable at the draft. This, sadly, is not new to him. Mikheil is used to being wildly uncomfortable. It was getting to the point where when he realized he was comfortable; he just became uncomfortable again.

There were a lot of reasons for Mikheil’s unending discomfort. He was big and dumb, too stupid to know what to do with his hands and with the kind of arm-span where that could get him in a lot of trouble. He never did good at school or knew the words at church, he was only ever good at hockey and punching people. And he wasn’t sure if he liked girls or boys or either or neither and some of those would not mesh well his particular skill set or his uncle or his future’s teams hopes for him.

Too broad, too big, stood out in a crowd, loomed over his teammates. He liked his teammates but didn’t really understand them, and he thought they felt the same way about him. He hit hard and talked soft, they called him “gentle giant” and “big guy” and he made sure to check the guys calling his teammates cocksuckers extra hard. He spoke 1.75 languages- Georgian, shitty Russian, and shittier English. He knew all the curse words in all three really well—and a few of the ones in French.

There’s not a translator here for him. He’s spent the last two years in Canada after Uncle pulled favors for the CHL import draft. He should know English better. He should tell the reporter exactly how excited he is to go play. He thinks he manages. He should be better at this, his third draft, he left Georgia for the CHL two years ago, and his family’s home for uncle’s dream eight. He shouldn’t appear nervous. Maybe he doesn’t. He’s smiling really wide either way.

It feels uncomfortable.

  * **Redo) 2009**



Kent thinks that the draft goes great, but that might because he’s high. He didn’t mean to be. When he was a kid looking at his Gretzky and Bad Bob posters and imagining joining the NHL, he didn’t go “and when they call my name first, I’ll be stoned.”

Then again, Kent thought yesterday that Dad Bob would be in the seats next to him. Then again, Kent thought yesterday he’d be going second.

Fuck Zimms for leaving him high and dry like this. He can see the camera people pan over to the empty seats reserved for the Zimmerman family after focusing in on his face. Zimms had fucking everything. Yeah, it was close, but it was always going to be Jack. He had the narrative and the better defensive play and so much fucking money and parents who loved him even though he was fucking Kent and he also had Kent.

He also had half a bottle of Zoloft and some vodka in his stomach yesterday so clearly it wasn’t enough. Whatever.

Kent was the A to Jack’s C, Parson with the assist and Zimmermann with the goal. There was a small chance that Zimms might have gone second to Kent for once in his fucking life and it almost killed him. What the fuck dude, not bro code.

He looked at the eyes of the owner who hands him the jersey. It says Parson on it. He wonders if it was ready before this morning. He wonders if they stitched the nameplate within the last couple of hours.

It was probably a little stupid to swallow the benzos before this. Probably really, really stupid. Probably stupid in the kind of way that his Mom warned him of, when he stayed up ‘til 5 am waiting for a text which never came.

Most players probably don’t sleep well before the draft. Hopefully for different reasons.

He smiles really widely when they call his name. He should be worrying what his mom thinks, if his new owners can tell that he’s not high from excitement per se. He smiles really widely and thinks _Zimms._

a) **2002**

Mikheil is careful with his uncle and Uncle is careful with him. He thinks, maybe, that other people would be surprised by this dynamic. Or they just wouldn’t believe it. His uncle probably seems… harsh.

“Coach is an asshole” as one of the boys on his teams put it.

And Mikheil wants to argue with them—does, sometimes. Even though defending his uncle is hard when he acts like an asshole, screaming, posturing.

But Uncle always looks sad after yelling, sort of regretful. When he plays chess with Mikheil, he’s always gentle. Even after he has to explain how the horses move for the second time. Even after the third.

During the late afternoon, Uncle teaches him dance moves and, in the evening, he plays chess, and after dinner he shows Mikheil tv shows and movies in bright English. When he moves his hands to correct Mikheil, they’re always gentle. Uncle was known for his good hands when he played, and his quick playmaking skills. Uncle flinches, sometimes, when characters on tv yell. His hands shake, a little bit, when Mikheil bumps into him now that he’s starting to grow.

His hands gesture wildly during a game when one of his teammates fuck up a pass. He’s yelling. Uncle is acting harsh. Uncle is acting like an asshole. Uncle is right, Gregory messed up the pass, Gregory is too old to be making these kinds of mistakes. Mikheil knows what Uncle knows: you have to make sacrifices to make it to the league.

Uncle is the only hockey player from Georgia to have ever really made it. Uncle is the dream story: part of the Red Army hockey, won medals for the old country, went to America and made serious cash.

And in a week, it will be Mikhel’s turn, Uncle has assured him that he’ll be selected for a place in somewhere called Cornwall. Later, they’ll book a flight, and Uncle will come help him set up.

Mikhel, occasionally, thinks of the other parts of the story: how Uncle left for Moscow at 7, how Uncle did not, could not, visit his father when he got sick. He had two days off for the funeral and most of them were spent traveling. The nickname of his old Russian coach was “The Dictator”. Uncle slips into the meanest Russian Mikhel’s ever heard; his language in Russian insulting and personal where his Georgian never is. Uncle gave half of his earnings to the party back then and walks with a limp today. Uncle never had kids, just took in his sister's youngest after his brother-in-law died.

These days Mikhel helps him up the stairs and wonders if Uncle thinks it was worth it.

  1. **DEC 2016 CONT^3**



“I mean, really, you didn’t even want to draft me” Kent starts. “But your first would’ve been gayer louder. So. You should be thankful, really.”

“I wanted to draft you” Stephen Thantley says loyally. “I didn’t own the team yet, Zimmerman was way more _Aces_ at the time, and also, you know, the draft was in Montreal, so he had the hometown hype factor. But I would’ve chosen you ten times out of ten, Kenny.”

Loyal-er, and slightly disgruntled, Scraps interjects, “Zimmerman never would win as Aces face’s. No style.”

“I mean, he came out as gay by kissing his boyfriend under the Stanley cup his rookie year in the league.” Sofia Thantley says, “Clearly, that’s some style.”

“Have you seen his fashion sense?” Maxine counters. “No. Ew.”

“Considering our candid nature of this meeting, I feel like it’s appropriate that I voice that Zimmermann would’ve always been a poor fit on the Aces, either for lifestyle reasons or because he wouldn’t have fit well with the system.” Tom adds. “Frankly, he doesn’t have the flexibility or creativity.”

“Again, came out, center ice, dramatic kiss” Sofia defends.

“The cup is an aphrodisiac” Tom says. “Frankly, I’m surprised Parser and Scraps didn’t swap spit where there were cameras. Or get together then, if you’re telling the truth about the 2015 date. Good self-restraint, boys”

Technically, they swapped spit after.

**III. Getting Together- The First Time**

**2009- Kent**

Pre-season’s about to start and slowly the guys are filtering in, arriving from such exotic locales as the Grand Toronto Area to French Canada, all the way from Middle-Of-Nowhere-Small Canada to Minnesota [American Canada].

Andy throws a BBQ the first weekend before camp starts, part alt captain-ly duties and part effort to lure the boys back away from their fish towards the sweltering heat of Vegas.

Kent got in on a Wednesday and spent most of the time quietly setting up his room. He never really knew how much shit went in getting mildly set up in a place. There’s a moment where he wished his mom was here, to be a real adult but then he remembered their last “adult” conversation. King only grumbled a little bit when driving him to a Target to pick out shit. Soon, if he finds out if he’s made onto the opening roster, Kent is buying a truck. King will have his own kids to carpool. He doesn’t need one more.

Kent’s kinda sick of mooching free rides, yeah?

It’s weird meeting the rest of the guys. The guys who come first are the guys who’ve been in Vegas for most of the summer, the guys with kids who bring, like, dip and things. Others trickle in slowly. He makes conversation with pretty much all of them, they seem decently amused about their new 1OA. He starts with the whole Kent Parson Razzle Dazzle. He starts working on his mental files—who they are, what names they mention (is Bailey a wife or a kid or a dog?), noting what they do for fun. Kent’s never had a hard time fitting on a team: people like to feel special, people like to feel known, and people like receiving sick assists.

The Kent Parson Razzle Dazzle starts to flag. Kent volunteers to fetch more beer from the game room/basement/mancave. Some of the guys are doing cocaine. They offer some. They say, “not like it’d be your first time.”

(It would be. Kent and Jack got into a lot of dumb shit in their time. Jack might’ve, actually, but just once or twice. Kent couldn’t afford his hockey gear really much less a coke addiction. It wasn’t the hard shit that got them in the end.)

Kent waves off weakly. He doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers. Rookies don’t rock the boat. Are people looking? Are they watching him? Did Andy know—it’s his team, it’s his house—

Kent goes to find the dog. That’s what Zimms would do when the social interaction to alcohol ratio got too high.

Kent finds the dog. Next to the wiener dog is some huge guy he doesn’t really recognize. He’s broad, dark hair, dark eyes—his hands dwarf Kent’s when they shake.

“I am Scraps” Scraps, he guesses, says in a thick (Russian?) accent. “This dog is very fat. He likes belly rubs”

They pet the dog for about five minutes. Kent realizes he never got the beer and rushes to. When he comes up after dutifully delivering the beer, Scraps isn’t to be found after,

**FIRST MEETINGS 2009- Scraps**

Scraps is not a morning person, but he can see how you would think that. He used to call home occasionally. Not anymore, not after the war. He checks in on the family three times a week now. The family which is often only available to call in the afternoon. Meaning, the family only available to call early, early Vegas time.

It’s awkward every time. The call is a stiff, uncomfortable formality like the starched collar of a gameday suit. He makes tea and eggs while calling. A warm mug in hand does wonders to keep loneliness away while speaking on speakers to his mama and deda. Uncle does not answer the phone these days, although will occasionally email him clips of Scraps’ play with commentary.

He gets antsy after calling. Home reminds him of hockey which makes him want to go play hockey. Although ridiculously early to the point of annoyance, Scraps feels that his early-bird habits are mainly a positive considering hockey is not making Scraps want to play hockey.

Scraps could use this practice time better. Coach John would call this “a fucking worthless waste of time” He’s usually on the third and fourth lines, big energy checking lines, and Uncle’s graceful practice drills would not even suit the top six here at Vegas. Vegas was a smash-y team. Not much for elegance.

It’s day 3 of training camp and those looking to finally break into the roster will show up early, trying to show off their gritty work effort, but even then, the hopefuls will be a while still. Lots of time for Scraps to---

Of course, then someone does show up, although not really someone who has to worry about breaking into the roster.

“Hey” Kent Parson says. “Mind if I join you?”

Scraps does not say “what the fuck is wrong with you, crazy person, why are you here this early when you don’t even have cross Atlantic phone calls to make.” Scraps says sure.

Scraps explains as best he can the drills. Uncle did them to practice playmaking and assists. He’s tried to teach Mullsy, but even when he has white board with helpful little stick men, Mullsy failed to capture the nuances.

Kent Parson takes to it like ___.

Kent Parson is there’ two days later. And the next two days after that. Scraps starts showing up on days even when he isn’t calling his family. Kent’s there then too.

They very carefully do not ask each other about the weirdness of what they’re doing. Scraps remembers his first hockey camp, how exhausted he was, how all he wanted to do was sleep. Every morning, like the sun, Kent Parson is there to do passing drills. Kent Parson is the Next Big American Thing showing up too early to learn Russian drills from a bottom six Georgian.

Parson shows him some moves too. And they get better at working together. They’ve got good chemistry, something Scraps has noticed Parse does not have with most of their other centers. Coach starts playing them as line mates. Which. Means Scraps is no longer in the bottom six. Of course, he’s still expected to sometimes use his weight a little. Parson is precious to the team; Scraps is to protect the star. But, most of the time, he has less bruises.

Last season was bad. Last season started with the thrill of cracking the roster, middle to injury, and ended with Vegas second to last in the league and Scraps covered in new shades of bruises. Bruises from checks, bruises from blocking pucks, bruises on the heart for what was going on his country, where he did not know what was going to happen and did not know if there was something he could do if he did. All the hurts mixed together.

With Parson on his wing and Scraps playing as 2C, the hurts not gone, but it is better, and Scraps could get use to better.

**Kent on Scraps**

“Parse, help”, Scraps says battling it out for the puck behind the board.

“Parse, help”, Scraps says at the club looking utterly terrified as two drunk co-eds grind on him.

“Parse, help”, Scraps texts to his phone at 6:32 AM. When Kent gets to the apartment, he finds Scraps has a fucking tiger cub.

What the fuck is his liney doing? Kent doesn’t know. Kent knows how to get open for a trash pass, how to reject someone while flattering them, how to _call management Scraps, I get that he was a “bastard man who deserved punch”, don’t keep exotic animals in your Vegas condo_. The thing is, Scraps gets into a lot of situations like that.

(Well, not usually on the ice, Scraps’s is kind of a bulldozer, his problem there usually is giveaways and turnovers.)

But like. Scraps has a doll in his apartment that was given to him by an mysterious old woman and it’s definitely cursed, and Scraps is definitely too chicken to throw it away so now it just lives there in his condo. Scraps has tried to jump multiple fences and, not coincidentally, Scraps has eaten a lot of shit after tripping on fences. Scraps unironically sends the group chat cat memes. Scraps lives his life in this weird sense of baffled marching on and he looks at Kent’ like Kent knows what he’s doing, like Kent can help him out.

And like usually Kent can? Not about emotions and all that shit, but he’s totally functional enough to help Scrappy buy his lesbian neighbors a good Christmas gift. Kent can tell Scraps that he’s a good guy and he’s doing a good job although if Scraps wanted to do this, his life would probably be easier. And Scraps _takes his advice_. _AND IT USUALLY HELPS_.

Kent’s… not doing the greatest at this whole team player thing lately. He resents his teammates because they’re not good at shooting or passing or really anything other than checking and occasionally punching; he resents them because team bonding means going to a bar or a club or a team-mandated event with a flask and talking about drugs and sluts and doing drugs and sluts; and he resents them because they’re not Jack. Meanwhile, his team doesn’t like him because a puck-hog drama queen who whines to the refs when he gets hit, because he's a cold, aloof, stuck-up prick at team bonding who only communicates one sentence at a time, and because he’s not Jack—son of a hard hitting hockey legend who’d come with the kind of instant fan base that could help get Vegas’s out of the basement for attendance and a player who not only was a prodigy, but Vegas Aces Gritty™.

But, besides those things in the background, Kent kinda likes that Scraps is on his team.

**Scraps on Kent**

The thing about Parse that Scrappy likes is that he can help him. Okay, the thing that Scraps likes about Kent Motherfucking Parson is that he’s hockey genius, slick-hands, holy-shit, only thing that got them into the eighth seed wildcard spot for 2011 Cup. But on a personal level, Scraps likes that he can help Kent.

Obviously not with hockey though. All Kent needs is for Scraps to get him the puck and have faith Kent’s going to pull some ice magic. Scraps has all the faith.

But Kent needs something to do.

“All the kid does is practice.” Mullsy complains. “He’s there every morning, he stays late, and if he comes out, half the time he stays an hour, picks up the hottest girl in the place and just leaves.”

This is all true, but Scraps has… thoughts on some of it. Sometimes, Kent moves a little _too_ smoothly, a little too practiced. He does this, a lot, when talking to girls. The boys complain about him being too cool, always winking and saying a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell when pressed for details. He is a bit too cool. Or… too cold? Kent doesn’t seem to enjoy himself when talking with a beautiful woman.

Scraps has some ideas on that. Scraps is not going to think those ideas, but he knows they’re there.

Scraps does know one thing which Kent enjoys a lot: winning. Doing things. Succeeding. It can be a chore for the guys to get their youngest A to come out for social reasons

(I’m 19! I can’t even drink yet. I’m staying in.

…it’s Vegas

Well, maybe I don’t wanna drink tonight

… _It’s Vegas_ )

But, Scraps finds, Kent’s always happy to help. Eager to help? Kent gets satisfied when he feels useful.

And Scrappy can find a lot of uses for a teammate. Especially someone who’s charming, fluent in English, and actually crazy smart. Not just hockey-smart, or smart for a hockey player, but smart-smart. Blindingly brilliant sometimes. And there’s so much here, so much lights, and language, and mean tourists who say he should speak English in America. And when he asks the other guys for help, they play pranks or laugh at him. Kent never laughs.

(Maybe Scraps seems like he’s enjoying himself too much when talking to a very handsome young man. But he just needs to say something slowly in English, then frantically in Georgian and then all the eyes glaze over at who Scraps is as a person. He’s too foreign for the North Americans, too eastern for the Scandinavians, and too Georgian for the Russians. Sometimes, it’s actually easier to blend in alone)

**Summer 2011**

It’s not like Kent and Scraps were _planning_ on fucking. They were friends, in a quiet sort of way. Both of them exchanged looks while the D-team (three d man and one dick of a forward) talked about the strippers they supposedly fucked and exchanged cat videos at the bar.

Here’s what Kent remembers: the happiness. The sheer joy. If this what Zimms felt like high, Kent takes back every mean thought about holding it together for one more day ever whispered in the corners of his mind. _Fuck_ what he wouldn’t do to keep feeling like this forever. Is it possible to win the Stanley Cup every year? Kent’s not sure he can go back to losing. He feels like he’s invincible, impenetrable, on top of the world.

But the thing with him and Scraps starts off with a look. It’s really a series of looks: in the huddle, hugging, after winning the fucking Stanley Cup; in the locker room where Kinger is spraying Kent with champagne he can’t legally drink back in the States, bubbles overflowing on his hands because he scored the game-winning goal to win the Stanley fucking Cup; in the club where Kent can’t hear anything but his own heart beat and the bass and can’t feel anything but the thrill of being a motherfucking Stanley Cup champion and the warm heat of Scraps cutting a rug behind him.

They don’t fuck night of. But they board the plane to bring the cup back to _Vegas, Baby WOO!_ and celebrate on the plane and celebrate in the clubs and so, Kent and Scrappy, two days post cup, share a cab back to Kent’s penthouse. They’re stumbling more out of sheer exhaustion than alcohol-- Kent would be surprised if any of his team had slept more than four consecutive hours. They’d left the rest of the team once they’d busted out the nose candy, but both Kent and Scrappy were keyed up out of sheer giddiness.

Entering the ultra-modern luxury den of awesomeness, Scrappy showed the right amount of propriety by bowing to Purrs and dropping his feathered boa to give her something to pounce on. Immediately, he crashes on the (incredibly uncomfortable) couch and attempted to figure out how to turn the (incredibly overcomplicated) TV onto Animal Planet.

Kent sat down beside him and tolerated his fumbling for exactly two seconds before trying to snatch the remote away. Still riding the endorphins from the whole winning the cup thing, Scrappy used his (considerably longer) reach to keep the remote out of the way. Kent gets closer and closer, until he’s practically in Scrappy’s lap, until he’s straddling Scrappy’s thighs; until Kent looks up and Scrappy and they share mirrored looks of exhaustion and bewilderment and joy and then they kiss and then they fuck.

And then the next morning Scraps mutters, while collecting the remaining pieces of his clothing and dignity _this cannot have happened_. Kent nods his agreement, grabbing on tightly to a mug of coffee. Really, when they get down to it, it’s basically geopolitical.

See, Kent Parson is the golden boy, American as Apple Pie (birthday and everything!), support-your-troops kind of guy. Single mom, American dream, and even got most of the old Canadians to stop implying he sinfully tempted Zimmermann into drugs/pushed him down into the powder on draft day/left him for dead. Scraps, on the other hand, frequently pretends not to speak English or Russian to avoid questions on international tensions and became part of a controversy for saying he thought it was okay for a Georgian soccer player to wear a rainbow armband. Who knows what would happen to him if Georgia found Scraps wasn’t just wearing the rainbow, but actively tasting the rainbow?

Somewhere, in the wilds of Canada, Jack Zimmerman was apparently coaching Peewee. But Zimms was still one of the most talented players Kent had ever seen and he’d seen and beaten most of the NHL at this point. Zimms, who just needs to figure out the right dosage for his anxiety medication. Zimms, who just needed someone to look past his past and into his future. And if they found out Kent was gay, and remembered the rumors of their rumors, Jack would never play in the NHL.

And Kent couldn’t be selfish enough to steal Jack’s dream twice.

Also, Kent wants to keep his A, so fucking a teammate would probably be pretty dumb.

  1. **DEC 2016- CONT^4**



“I am sure we are all fascinated by the epic love story of Parse and Scraps” Stephen begins, utterly sincere in the way only a tech billionaire who could buy everyone in the room can be. “However, let’s get back on target. What do we need to know?”

“Well,” Maxine says “I think one of the first questions is—who else knows? Specifically, who else on the team knows?”

“On the team? No one.” Scraps says.

“Really? No one?” questions Sofia

“The team respects me professionally as their captain. They respect Scraps too, even though he’s technically nicknamed after trash. But they don’t know the details of our personal life,”

“Technically not named after trash” Scraps says. “Probably”

**IV Scraps, a saga**

**a) 2007**

It’s 2007, Mikhail has been in America for 4 years and he still only comprehends 60% of any given non-hockey conversation.

He gets hockey, there’s less vocab and he pretty much only needs to say to reporters some combo of: work hard, hard work, pucks did/did not get the bounce we want.

He doesn’t really have any good answers on “why did you punch your opponent”, but that’s a question that they both know the answer to. Vegas was a destination stop for other’s teams’ fans. Watch your team get an easy win, chug down a three-dollar margarita, and watch grown men fight on ice with knives on their feet for entertainment. Vegas Aces!

That being said, he’d much rather be there than here with the Albuquerque Aliens. At least he can spell Vegas. At least--- 

“Dude. Duuuude. _Dude.”_ Drew Muller was a pretty good teammate. He’d be a great roommate if he was just… a little quieter.

“Yes, it is me, “dude”” Mikheil responds

“The fuck are you watching. Scooby-doo?”

“Muller, you watch this show yesterday while high. You do not change the change the station. Bright colors, stupid jokes.”

“I ain’t judging Saturday Morning Cartoons.” Muller goes and pours a (totally banned) bowl of cereal and plops down next to him. It takes a few moments before he groans. “This isn’t Scooby-doo. This is _Scrappy-doo_.”

“The small dog?”

“Yeah, he’s the worst”

“He’s my favorite”

“What? He’s like, infamously terrible” Muller seems genuinely offended by this. Last night someone told Muller his Mom fucked truckers for quarters and Muller replied that her client base was wider than that. It took three teammates to explain it to Mikheil. Muller goes onto explain that Scrappy is the unwanted hanger-on, annoying sidekick, brat, obnoxious, disrespectful, rude… Mikheil tunes out until Muller is out of breath and done with his rant. Mikheil proceeds with is argument:

“He’s funny”

“You like Scrappy”

“I like Scrappy.”

“…the fuck man”

Scraps shrugs

**b) 2006**

“Well, number 91 is throwing his weight on the ice”

“That’s—Jesus, I’m not even going to try— Mikheil 91 drafted two years ago, shutout by the lock-out, on his ten day tryout to see if he’ll stay up or get sent back down to the C, seems like he’s looking to prove himself and earn a permanent spot on the team.”

“Has a tendency to find himself in Vegas’s frequent on-ice scraps”

“Well the 19-year old is a pretty scrappy fellow himself—he’s taking on vets, he’s taking on rookies, he’s ready to throw down to help his team.”

“Number 91, that’s one to look out for”

**c) 2005**

“…what are you eating?”

“Sandwich.”

“What’s in the sandwich?”

“Leftovers.”

“We don’t have deli meat. You’re just eating like, the kitchen scraps. Is this chicken fish again? Do you know what you’re eating?”

“Taste good.”

“No bud, uh, it doesn’t. Can you even taste the sandwich? Holy shit dude, how much mustard did you put on that thing?”

“Enough”

“What won’t you eat?”

See, Mikheil does not have the perfect grasp of English. But he’s been in North America for a few years, went to an English school, hung out with English-speaking, hockey-playing teenagers. He’s got this one.

“Your Mom.”

**`1. DEC 2016 Cont^4.5**

“So, the team doesn’t know?”

“The team doesn’t know”

**V. THE LAS VEGAS ACES: A SUMMARY**

**Summer 2009**

Vegas is a dry heat. That’s all anyone will tell him. “It’s hot, but it’s a _dry heat_.”

No one will tell him the things he actually wants to know like “is Zimms okay?” or “is Zimms going to call me back?” or “Do Alicia and Bob hate me now?” Kent can guess at some of those, but some definitive answers would be nice. The only answer Kent ever gets is “keep your head up, kid, and your eyes on the future.”

Kelly used to have this magic 8-ball that Kent won her at a fair. Sometimes when they were bored, they’d stay up late and talk and ask the 8-ball ridiculous questions. “Will I be in the NHL” “Will I marry a prince” “Are the Sabers going to win the Stanley Cup” “Will tomorrow be a snow day”.

The point is Kent knew how to read a “hazy- ask again later.” Kent, who has been described as “persistent” ever since he started playing, is used to the ol’ college try. What Kent isn’t used to? Heat.

A blast of scorching air fucking hits him like a wave out of the plane. Kent’s supposed to do two things today: meet his new roommate and meet his new owner. He’s trying to manage his expectations for both of those.

The posters in McCarran are baffling, it’s like the fourth time Kent’s been on a plane, but he’s pretty sure Buffalo’s airport didn’t have slot machines.

King, thirty-four, team’s 1C and captain is waiting for him by the baggage. He sticks to the script, welcome-aboard (good to be here), how-was-the-flight (good/long/glad to stretch my legs), know-you’ve-been-having-a-rough-summer-so-we’ll-give-you-time-to-adjust (thanks). The slight deviation to the script is when King asks if the two duffels bags are all Kent brought. Kent nods, King shrugs.

Kent stares out a window while King drives across Vegas, fingers tapping along to Vegas’s premier country station. Vegas looks different than Kent imagined, possibly because it was day. The city was a weird combination of totally normal seeming and looking weirdly fake, normal residencies jammed next to brightly colored buildings that looked like they were from a film set.

King led him to his home which had like six bedrooms, a heated pool, and some weirdly fancy decorative columns. “No income tax in NV equals a pretty sweet for signing bonuses” King said, catching Kent gawking.

“…good to know.”

“Look, I get suburban house isn’t where you wanna be hotshot but let me be real to you as El Capitian; mano y mano” the words out of King’s mayonnaise-y lips are pronounced exaggeratedly bad. Kent’s not sure if he’s mangling those poor syllables on accident or to mock him.

“Management knows that they’ll be under fire if you flame out. But also, this is Vegas, where careers go to die so you need to be like at least _a little_ on-brand. So, live here for year, rail bitches and lines in the bathroom _here_ rather in some nasty ass club where some idiot with a phone can make pressers real awkward, meet your contract bonuses, and everything will be fine, capiche?” Dully, Kent notes that King does bother to pronounce capiche correctly. Cool.

“I got you.”

King laughs and goes to what Kent supposes is supposed to be an affectionate hair toss. “Maybe keep the ho parade to the minimum? Real awkward to the Missus, we’re planning on having some kids, and she already thinks us hockey players are family unfriendly as it is.”

Kent nods. There’s really not much else to do.

This is, of course, before everything. The owner who strips a veteran of his A so they can shove one onto him so they can sell more jerseys. The coach who makes him list who’s working hard—and then telling everyone he didn’t name that they needed to work harder since their future captain was so unimpressed with them. The team who wanted someone a bit louder in the room, quieter on the ice; someone who was harder on the ice (a grinder, why would Vegas want a nancyboy’s _skillI_ ), and softer and more malleable when the team tried to push him into going Aces Hard.

But even though this is before everything, Kent feels the pit inside him that opened on draft day eve get just a little bit deeper.

**2010- Fall**

It’s 2 AM and Scraps has pushed past exhausted-and-deliriously-happy to deliriously-exhausted-and-happy, The party has moved from a bar to club and they should all really go to sleep, but they’re on a six game winning streak which is the longest ever in all six years of Aces history. For once, Vegas is in the playoff contention discussion.

Scraps has never played in the playoffs before.

Scraps plays in the top six now. He’s so excited that his stomach hurts although that could be from that check late in the third or from the alcohol. He’s mostly fine—the team keeps on trying to get him to drink vodka and call him a pussy when he wants wine on the rare chance they’re at a non-steakhouse place that serves it—but he’s at least 40% sober.

Which is probably why the team chooses to text him.

Parser, beautiful fucking Parser who carries this team on his back, currently has his back turned to Scraps as he hunches over in the alley throwing up. Andy and Kinger stand next to him, stopping their conversation to wave Scraps over.

“What’s going on?” Scraps asks.

“Kid must’ve had too much to drink” Kinger says. As if cued, Parson continues to spew and makes a pathetic little groaning sound.

“What was he drinking?” Parser, when he first got here went for the vodka shots, but the vets on the team tend to buy him the brightest, sugar-iest drinks available at the bar. Parser then usually took a single sip while staring at the guys and then went to chat up the hottest girl in the place. When he came back, with her number, he says something like “I don’t back down from dares” and then asks them to buy him another. (Scraps ordered the beer on tap and prayed there weren’t more options offered and he wouldn’t be forced to answer a question half-heard over the thumping, trashy techno).

“Who knows?” Andy shrugs. “But you’re like, one and half seasons away from a rookie. So. Y’know, take care of it.” Management preferred older, veteran players. Parser was the youngest guy on the team two years running.

Scraps gently shakes Kent and asks where his apartment is at. He does not get a response. A horrible thought occurs to him.

“Hospital?”

“Absolutely fucking not” Kinger explodes. “Unless you want to sabotage the kid and the team, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Just give him some water and make sure he doesn’t die.”

“Where’s his place?” Scraps knew that Kent had moved out of Kinger’s place and he first had the team over to his place of beer and video games, but Scraps knew Kent moved somewhere he could have a pet so he could take his old childhood cat (Purrs, very adorable).

Andy and Kinger just shrugged. Scraps at this point is more than a little bit confused.

“I thought you were… friends?”

There’s an awkward pause. Scraps meant that comment more in a “is there someone on the team who has the address” way, but he thinks his words might have a different meaning. There are always so many meanings here. There were in Georgia too, but there he had at least a 50% chance of guessing.

“We’re teammates. He’s an easy enough guy to like… when we’re winning. He’s a bitch and half when we’re not though. No one taught him how to lose, I guess.” Andy answers.

“We’re winning now”

“Yeah, and instead of learning his limits, he just gets blackout every other month like the world’s shittiest werewolf. I wish he’d stop being such a fucking princess about the… other stuff, but we should all weep with joy that he’s not a cokehead.” Kinger says. “Look, Scrappy. It’s really not that complicated. Take him to your place, give him some water and a blanket, and tell him next time you’ll leave him in the gutter. Tip the cab driver well—this is Vegas”

“Okay.” Scraps says. Parser is light and easy to carry. Scraps resolves to check some guys harder next time. In the morning, Scraps makes him pancakes and Kent carefully holds the mug of coffee Scraps makes him.

**2011- Fallish Winter**

“You know, the situation in Vegas isn’t looking too hot.”

“For a team that won that won the cup last season and looks like they’re going to make playoffs this year, you wonder why there’s so much front office trouble. This is there third coach in about as many seasons and it looks like there’ soon to be a fourth.”

“Rumor is that the Nicholson was hit bad by the recession as a lot of the residents were. Vegas real estate had a hell of a boom, but it’s been all downhill for the last three years. There’s some major improvements and front office cash that you would expect to see from a cup contending team.”

“Vegas had a pretty sweet deal being the place where you could fly out, gamble a little money, and go see some grown men beat each other on the ice. Not a lot of home-grown support, but a lot of deals with corporate boxes, conferences, and tourists. But back then people had a bit more spending money and spending a fun weekend seeing your team win was a more inviting option. Now, people are spending less and Vegas ain’t exactly the leagues easiest barn anymore.”

“They pinned a lot of hopes in their first first-round pick and they got everything they hoped for in Kent Parson—no doubt he willed his team into that fateful eighth seed last spring, right now he’s leading the team in goals and assists, scoring significantly more than the next leader, and he’s currently the forerunner for the Hart. If anyone can save hockey in Vegas, it’s him-- he’s become quite the local celeb, right Ray? The media loves his all-American thing and his all-American face doesn’t hurt with the Aces ladies fans either”

“Well, the media’s one thing—the team’s another. It’s his third season in the league and there’s still not a lot of supporting players around Parson. They’ve got some good D-men, but their forward depth is lacking. It’s a bit of the Kent Parson Show.”

“And as much as the ladies might love that, there’s a limited reach to that show. They got lucky last year with their opponents’ injuries, but luck can’t last forever. Still, Vegas fans should take the time to go and see a game—the tickets are cheap right now and there’s not a more exciting player in the league”

**2013- Spring**

Kent likes to come up with pithy little statements. It keeps his mind sharp and is a good exercise in analysis. If he had spent more time analyzing the front office, he might’ve realized that Nicholson was planning on signing him, dumping anyone expensive, cashing out on the TV deal in attempt to cut his losses on an investment he planned on selling. Fuck the fucking lockout.

He obviously (usually) doesn’t say his bitchy little one liners, but Kent plays to win and winning means preparation. Kent has never seen a team so fucking bad and there’s going to be fights before the seasons over. One of them will, eventually, call him a faggot, and Kent intends on there not being a second.

Carly: drunkenly half-remembering the time he got closest to helping someone actually accomplishing anything will be the highlight of his life (followed by first wedding, third wedding, that brief moment when he’ll think those hair plugs will work)

Langsy: thinking you’re a good person isn’t the same as being one, ditto for being a hockey player. If you were so good, why would Jesus let your captain and your alternate be a faggot while you’ve been traded away every other year? Can your pray-the-gay-away church explain that?

Andy: Why the fuck has management traded away every single player that could generate secondary goal scoring but kept the 35-year-old who has been fined for calling another player a fairy, a ref a cocksucker, and a player’s daughter a lesbian? He’s literally a body chosen for height and weight and an inability to get return value on and he still thinks he’s hot shit.

Mullsy: Kent really hopes that baby-sitting the rookies is enough to keep Mullsy’s mind off of his plus-minus because if it isn’t and Mullsy starts chasing the tender comfort of his wife, he’s going to realize that she got that STD from Andy.

Waksy: If doing 25% more coke would decrease the goals Waksy let in by 25%, he’d probably OD and the Aces would still have the worst save percentage in the league.

Swoops: Swoops is actually perfect and Kent’s pretty sure that half of a season in, most of the team would mutiny with him if Swoops ever got tired of Kent’s shit. Telling him that his girlfriend is smarter than him and the rest of the team combined but she will spend her life treating Jeff’s CTE from his multiple concussions, not helped by the fact he signed in a terrible city for her academic career, thus causing resentment forever might sting a bit?

Scraps: Humans might like dogs because they’re dumb, need us, and will love us after we’ve kicked them, but in the end who the fuck would choose to be a pet? There’s a reason why Kent’s a cat person.

Scraps: When you were off the ice getting stitches because of the 2012 “skate to the face” incident, one of the Aeroes said that Scraps was willing to get that scar so that Parson (who clearly sucked dick to pay for his bodyguard) would stay pretty, and none of the Aeroes laughed but like 3 of the Aces did and “Captain” Kent Parson said and did nothing, because guys like Scraps always got screwed over in the end, so no one respected the poor bastards, not even the team that Scraps bleeds for.

Kent: It’s actually really cool that Kent is good at ice hockey and bad at literally everything else. It’s totally great earning your way into other people’s tolerance by killing yourself on the ice and, while he can kill himself to produce, his team will neither like him nor make the playoffs this season. 

Kent: the thing is that Kent would trade in all his trophies and hardware to be 17 and happy one more time. Zimms thanks god every day that he isn’t 17 anymore.

Kent: is it better to have everything you want and know you’re still miserable or wake up every day with nothing but think maybe one day you might be happy?

Kent: people forgive the fact that he’s a miserable person because he’s above average on the ice, but no one’s going to give a fuck when 40 and alone and possibly have his face eaten off by his cat.

Kent: Everyone he has ever loved resents him

Kent: dumb fucking idiot never learns

Kent: needs this flight to take off, needs his teammates to start producing, needs a fucking drink.

Kent’s going to get one of those three, but whatever, life is all about the sacrifice.

**2014- Winter**

Everyone thought it was obvious he was going to the Olympics. Scraps wasn’t so sure. Georgia didn’t qualify during IIHF stuff. He got texts from his countrymen, but he would rather be in the playoffs than in worlds. Also, even with him, they would’ve still lost a lot and that would’ve been embarrassing. He’s just glad Australia did slightly worse so they weren’t demoted down a division. That would’ve broken Uncle’s heart.

Obviously, Scraps was excited to go the Olympics. But also, he was nervous. Georgia’s Hockey team was… not good. And the games were in Russia which. Meant that people were going to be reading into a lot of what happened. There were no government officials going with them to Russia because of the 2008 war. Also, only four other athletes in the other sports.

There were a few Aces players going. Kent Parson, obviously. One of last year’s rookie D-men, Virty, was going to be 7th d-man for Finland which was cool. And him.

This was probably Georgia’s last year at the Olympics. That’s why they were going. It wasn’t going to end well, but it was uncle’s last chance to earn a medal for Georgia rather than the USSR. Enough interest in hockey was started when Uncle made the national team and played in the NHL in the early 90s that they could field a team even now, but Uncle complained that less and less kids signed up for hockey coaching every year. Kids these days weren’t interested. Or, there wasn’t a large enough pool.

Uncle had hoped that him playing in the NHL might spark more interest, but Scraps was mostly known for assisting Parson and punching a dude in the face. Which was pretty cool. But not enough to get kids to choose hockey over football (which had a Georgian league) or basketball (which had more than two professional players).

***

Scrappy was not used to being right about things. He usually wasn’t. But unfortunately, the Olympics did not go well. Georgia was out in the first round. American Men’s Hockey flamed out in a way that made Parser’s eyes tight around the edges. There was a lot of criticism that Parser wasn’t used right and wasn’t played enough and a lot of questions to Parser about why that was and why he thought the coach didn’t think Parser was good enough and Parser’s media face was starting to fuse with his regular face and it was kind of scary.

Oh, and Russia invaded another country. Scraps didn’t really see that coming but he didn’t really not see that coming either. Ossetia showed Russia the consequences. There are some things that just eat up other things.

***

A few months later, he and some of the guys are going out to that really good Mexican place nearby. Scraps is slow getting ready when Carly calls for him “to hurry it up, Red Menace”

“Not. Russian.” Across the locker-room, he sees their recently demoted Polish netminder wince.

“It’s like, basically the same thing bro” Carly continues

“It’s really not.” Parser says with a roll of his eyes.

“Whatever, you were commies like twenty years ago anyways. I mean, your fucking uncle played for the red army, they mention it everytime we’re in Detroit.” Carly, continues, as always.

“My uncle-- Georgian. Me? Georgian. Not. Russian.”

“Dude, untwist your panties. I won’t snitch to anyone about you being a secret undercover mole from Moscow”

Scrappy slams his locker shut. Wordless, he just lets out a scream. He’s not really satisfied by this, he wants to call Carly out, he wants to fucking explain. But. He doesn’t have the words, not in the English he’s been speaking for the last ten years or in his rarely-used Georgian, to say what he wants to say—about being a stranger in a strange land, too foreign for the Europeans and too foreign for the North Americans; he wants to scream about the fear North Americans have never known about a country on your border, and a more powerful army on your doorstep; about irrelevance, about people not caring about you and what you do-- not in your country, not about your country, and the not caring even on your team. But he can’t say that, all at once, in the calm way that would make people take him seriously and especially not in the Aces locker room where they don’t say that kind of stuff at all.

Management changed last summer, and Scraps was excited, they really couldn’t do a worse job than the last guys. And they hadn’t. They were really, really professional which was why Maxine sat him down and told him to change his number away from 91. He had protested—lots of guys in the league wore 91. She had said, not for the reason you do. 91 was the year uncle started playing hockey in America and the year his country got independence and a year that journalists, now that Russia was in their radar again, might ask about. They didn’t want a scandal here. She said, to say something about it being confusing with KVP90, his constant line mate.

Parse asked him why he changed, and he had shrugged. Parser did his squinty eye magic brain thing and figured it out. Parser could figure anything out minus getting Carly to shut up for good. Parser said, “that’s bullshit” and then told him an English pun about getting sick and tired of people thinking his goals were actually Parser’s (91 sounds like ninety-won). Parser had to explain it a few times since it was all out-loud and homophones were bullshit. Parser never really minded explaining things to him, easily, endlessly patient.

“Christ, is it Scraps’ time of the month?” Carly asks the locker room.

Scraps is less patient. He walks out.

**Spring of 2015**

Mullsy looks after his boys, even when he’s leaving. He tells Carly to chill out. He and Singher have a long talk about being POC in the league and balancing Vegas’s, ahem, aggressive reputation, the role of D on checking, and not letting PR paint you as a thug (Mullsy) or too effeminate to lay real hits (Singh). He ruffles Parson’s hair and tells him he’s a good kid and to keep taking glamor shots of Kit and Purrs.

He tells Scrappy, his closest friend on the team, a dude he views as his idiot cousin, a man who cried happy tears when he was Mullsy’s groomsmen, the truth he’s been repeating over and over again: Scrappy should keep some distance from Parse.

Scrappy just gives him a look.

“Look. Scraps. Scrappy-do. It’s not that I don’t like Kent Parson. He’s like, 60% of our offense, he cares about the team, and he’s fun to hang out with. He doesn’t brag, he doesn’t whine, and he’s great with front office.”

“Also,” Scraps chimes in, “a good friend who I care about”

“Okay, but that’s the thing Scrappy. He is _not_ and won’t ever will be.”

Scraps pshaw’s.

“Scrappy, remember the fight this fall with Langsy? Pretty sure the man makes notes to figure out where exactly it’ll hurt the most.” Mullsy says

“Temper not the worst flaw”

“Cruelty is. Look. I know you care about him. I know he cares about you as much as he can. But I’ve been in Vegas the longest of ‘bout anyone still left. I’ve seen Parser choose winning over literally anything or anyone else. Not the worst thing for a captain, but it’s bad for a friend. Look at his relationships with his girlfriends—he’s not going to invest himself in the kind of vulnerability a friendship needs.”

“You’re wrong. Also, none of your business” Scrappy is so fucking stubborn. Why is he so gullible on things like “oh yeah, aglet means good job”, but doesn’t trust Mullsy’s excellent character advice?

“I just know how much you’re going to be pining away for me. Don’t want you to replace our bromance with a guy who won’t commit”

“Parse is the most committed,” Scrappy says firmly.

“Yeah, to hockey. And you’re on the same team Scrappy, but you’re not hockey. You’ve already injured yourself fighting to avenge his honor once before, I don’t want to see _you_ self-destructing. Remember Boston? The curfew breaking? The net-crashing? Parse is burning himself out in one big blaze of hockey glory. Don’t catch yourself on fire trying to put out.”

“Sure” says Scraps. “But I’m still gonna try.”

**DEC 2016^5**

“Wait. Jeff Troy doesn’t know?” Marcy says.

“Oh. Yes, Swoops knows. Forgot he was on team.” Scraps replies. More accurately, it feels less like he’s on the Aces and more like he’s on their side, but that’s a thing to say to your mutual bosses.

“I don’t know why I didn’t catch that.” Kent says, shaking his head. “He’s been here for almost three years now, thank god.”

Kent continues, “Here’s who knows: me and Scraps, obviously, Swoops, actually I think Singer might have an idea but also never wanted to ask to confirm it, my sister, his uncle, and Scraps’ neighbors Renee and Maria. And now you guys. But yeah, Swoops totally knows” 

“Swoops knows _everything_ ” Scrappy confirms.

**VI: The Swoopsmeister**

**2014- December**

Everyone in Vegas is thrilled about Kent Parson’s point-streak except for two people. And sadly, both of those people were on the team. Well, probably some of their other teammates resented it, but they were the two with good reasons for hoping the streak would end without bloodshed.

Because as his two-closest-friends-on-the-team, Swoops and Scraps were the ones who have to deal with the mania. Some stars get anxious on point-streaks, some get superstitious. Scraps really wishes Kent would tell him about his Italian vacation 16 times in a row, also because it would mean Kent took a vacation. Kent, when he got hot, looked like he got calm. Actually, he got crazy as hell.

But like in a casual way.

Scraps is lucky he has back-up now. Jeff Troy got to see it firsthand on their 2012 playoff run. Scraps had to physically restrain Parser from jumping into a pool during the WCF game 3, careful not to grab him by the hand (broken fingers), chest (bruised ribs), or fuck up his legs (technically fine, but an alarming shade of green-black from the hits from the Schooners). Swoops is currently trying to talk sense to Parser while Scraps holds the keys to Parser’s flashy rental over his head.

Much of Scraps’s life has been holding objects so Parse can’t reach them or grabbing things from the top shelf for Parse’s benefit.

“Kent,” Swoops starts “we have a game tomorrow. We’ve got hella strict roadie rules around partying—which as captain _you_ know about. It’s already 10 PM, it’s a Sunday matinee, and Samwell’s at least an hour away.”

“Not if you drive fast.”

“Kent no” Swoops pleads. “What if they bench you? Your point streak—”

“—is less important than getting Zimms to sign here. You really want a repeat of 13? This is a team game. I’m lucky that these points are coming now and masking our huge foward depth problem.” When Swoops seems unmoved, Kent continues, “Plus, I already cleared it with front office. They’ve been riding my dick to get Zimms aboard for _months_. They’ll be curious to know why I didn’t go and do the thing I promised to do.”

“How the fuck did you convince them that this was worth the PR risk?” Swoops says.

“Told ‘em an invite was too convenient to pass up”

Scraps interrupts, “Zimmerman invited you? That’s good! I thought he hadn’t said anything since the 2013--”

“Yeah. Give me the fucking keys.” Scraps throws them to him over Swoops protests. If Parse won’t talk to them, maybe there’s a friend out there who’ll get it done. Parser catches the keys one handed and tips his snapback at them before walking out. The room is quiet for just one moment, excited thuds of Kent’s expensive-yet-casual shoes thumping out of the hallway. Swoops takes a slow inhale and releases it with a frustrated sigh.

“Scraps. He was clearly lying about the Zimmerman invite”

“Oh. _Oh._ That’s… not good.”

“No, Scrappy. It is not. Which is _why_ I was trying to _stop him_.” Swoops glares at him for three seconds before flopping onto Kent’s bed.

Scraps, absurdly, feels like crying. It’s not that Scraps isn’t used to messing up. He, as every journalist in the US would mention, is the weak link on the top line. Scrappy last year briefly went back to the 3rd line but having not one but two skill wingers on the team meant that a big forward who could throw checks and read passes was a first line must. But next to Scraps were two of the best players of the league, everyone knew where the turnover would be. Everyone knew which one of them wasn’t going to go to all-star games.

But Scrappy doesn’t usually mess up with Kent. And he did now.

Jeff, seeing a 6’3 225 hockey fighter with tears in his eyes sighs and takes pity. “You know what he told me last year?” Swoops says in a low turn of voice “This was like, April, like a week after mathematical elimination and like 10 shots. I went “damn, what a shitty end to a shitty season. Hope it’s rock bottom”, He was all “yeah it’s going to be fine.” I ask why, assuming it’s going to be something logical. He bursts out with ‘Zimmerman-Parson reunion and it’ll all be okay.’ And then he puked glitter in the gutter.”

“Do you think he believes that?” ‘Is he more or less honest when drinking’ is the real question. Scraps has never been able to figure that out.

“I wasn’t sure if he was Tequilla-Parse or vodka-Parse.” Apparently, neither has Swoops.

“I just.” Scraps starts and stops. Doesn’t know how to say it without sounding childish. “I just want him to be okay.”

Swoops looks at him and pauses. “You really, really care, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Scraps says, a little bewildered to where this is going. “He’s my best friend.”

Swoops leaves to play video games. Despite only having been here for two years, he’s closer with the other guys than Scraps and Parse. Or maybe because of it.

Scraps get it—he really does. He knows what it’s like to the scope of your life narrowed down to just one person. What it is like to have your job be keeping something broken from receiving any more damage. He makes a note to call his uncle. Scraps has scraped his knuckles on other players teeth for Parser, and he can probably pin at least one of his concussions on the fights he got into for his captain’s honor, and somewhere out in the night, Parse is racing down a highway in a hurry to break his own heart.

Scraps wonders if the hotel has any of the _Transformers_ movies. He texts Mullsy. It’s going to be a long night.

**2015 (November)**

“It’s weird for me hanging out with you two now that I know you two are boning.”

“Shut up, Jeff” Kent calls from the kitchen while he and Scraps were on the couch “you’ve already been hanging out with us while we’ve been boning. We’ve been boning for like a year”

“While?” Jeff says, “Is there something I should know about movie nights?”

“You have shit taste in movies,” Kent says

“You never watch my movies,” Swoops argues. They don’t. Jeff kinda gets why they don’t watch his critically acclaimed stuff when one of them doesn’t speak English well and only one went past high school. But like. His action movies are at least as good as Kent’s horrible buddy comedy movies slash musicals.

“Yeah, cause your movies are shit.” Kent shouts. He really doesn’t need to, it’s an open floor plan. Jeff thinks he just likes being dramatic. 

“We just watch your movies because Scrappy goes along with whatever you suggest for liney movie night!” Jeff argues

Parse stops washing up to point, “Because he trusts my impeccable taste.”

Kent finishes cleaning up and asks if they want any Gatorade. Swoops is still tired from practice and considering that all of Scraps was drooping, he figures it’s safe to say sure for the both of them. Parse comes back with one blue and two yellow, keeping the blue and giving Scraps and him the yellows.

“Yellow?” Jeff whines “It’s like the worst flavor.”

“Wrong. Best.” Scraps says

“Parse, buddy, want to trade?” Swoops asks.

“No, you were right, it’s the worst flavor.” Parse answers over Scrappy’s protesting squawks.

“You always keep it stocked! Why do you keep buying it if you don’t like it, huh? Scared to admit you like it.” Scraps argues smugly.

Parser says nothing.

“Oh fuck” Swoops chimes in “bro, that’s _tender_ ”

Kent grouses something which might be shut up or might be nothing at all and sinks into the couch as if that would stop Jeff from mocking him.

**2016 (January)**

“I need a favor”, he says, approximately half a second after Swoop’s opened his door.

“Sure thing, Cap. Where’s the body and do we have time to buy a shovel first?”

Kent’s honestly a little touched. “You don’t have one? C+ Lawn work there”

Swoops pulls him inside with a bro-hug/noogie “Shut up, apartment dweller. You know I’m Beth’s trophy husband. I don’t have time to garden, I gotta keep this bod tight.”

“Shut up about your bod,” Kent drawls

“Tough words for a man asking a yet-undisclosed favor.”

“We get it, you went to college.” Kent says.

“You know, you’re really not as good at the whole avoidance thing as you think you are.” Jeff says, somehow in both a gentle and asshole way. He continues, gently and asshole-y “Is this about Zimmerman?”

“No.” Kent says. That’s not necessarily the whole truth, that would be something like “Yes, in that I tried to get Jack to sign here, and it all blew up and then I hit rock bottom and then I got therapy and then I realized I’m not 17 anymore and I don’t need to try recreate a brief period of time, idealized to the point of fiction, as the last time when I was happy, and am now trying to pursue meaningful relationships, which has led to me asking this horribly embarrassing favor; so in a way Jack signing with Providence and continuing to ignore me was the source of the original ripple effect, but no in that is unrelated to the favor.” But Kent would literally die than say that. “Are you and Beth free this Friday?”

“I mean, sure we can take a break from our busy schedule of watching trashy reality shows, but what the fuck is happening that you need Beth for. Are you dying? Are we witnesses for a freak marriage?”

“No.” Kent says. “I’m hosting a dinner party.”

“What the actual fuck? Are you dying? Again, freak marriage? Upset that your ex… bff has a seemingly happy adult life and are trying to play catch-up?”  
“I’m an adult!” Kent says defensively. He is. He’s bought candles for this and everything. “I have adult relationships.”

“You’re literally an infant.” Swoops is giving him a look which means he might have to wrestle for his dignity.

“I’m 26, you’re a year older than me, and you’re _married_ ” Kent says.

“I’ve got a real house, with real candles, and a bowl over there that’s full of real lemons. Suck it. You wear snapbacks and meticulously document your cats on Instagram.”

“Just. Come on Friday. Follow your better half’s lead”

“Kent, why are you hosting a dinner party?” Swoops says seriously. It’s not like he won’t know in several days anyways.

Kent mumbles, slightly hoping Swoops won’t hear him or mishear him “it’s a celebration of Scrappy’s birthday.”

Swoops has the ears of the bat and the processing abilities of a toddler meaning he has to say every thought out-loud. “But Scraps has like… literal garbage taste… why would you throw… a dinner party… you’re trying to show him you’re an adult…”

“I would like to say I am literally your captain. I have authority over you and things--” at this point Swoops just straights up put his hand over Parser’s mouth.

“You’re trying to show to Scraps you’re an adult and woo him… why… I know you’re hooking up and the dude’s clearly already been somehow wooed by your non-existant charm”

Jeff “Swoops” Troy is one of Kent’s best friends. He’s his A, his liney, and the only other person on the team who both knows that Kent’s gay (apparently the fake girlfriend management chose was a step too far for him to find believable) and Scrappy’s not straight (walked in on them making out because Swoops doesn’t understanding knocking and Scrappy forgets to lock doors half the time because he gets distracted). So. Kent can be honest here.

“Uh. We’re kind of… more than hooking up. And I wanna make him happy. And, do something for him? I think it’ll make him smile real big and I kinda really want to see-slash-do that.” Kent says. Proudly. Totally doesn’t mutter that last part.

Jeff stares, so Kent continues “I bought actual Georgian wine when I was up in New York for my birthday, that’s how I got the idea. And I’m making khachapuri because it has four ingredients that I can apparently get at Trader Joe’s. Also, I’m inviting Renee and Maria, don’t say anything shitty about Renee’s job because she’s heard every stripper joke imaginable and she’ll verbally destroy you.”

“You’re inviting possibly controversial PR people into your space, to break our diet plans, actually cooking and hosting, all so you can make Scrappy—who you’re totally gay for-- happy?”

“Yep.”

Jeff pulls him into a hug “I’m so proud of you”

“Are you being kind or an asshole?” It could always go either way with Swoops.

“Yep” he says. He pauses a moment before releasing Kent from his octopus death grip, commenting, “holy shit, does that mean me and Beth are going to be the token straights?”

“Yep”

“Sweet” says Jeff and fists pumps.

**DEC 2016^6**

“Wait, why does Renee sound so familiar?” Maxine wonders.

“…you have had to deal with Renee in a PR situation before” Kent reluctantly says. “She uh. Burnt Scrappy’s clothes on a balcony. And went on a twitter rant about me that went viral?”

“Why does the list of people of who know what will inevitably be the biggest scandal in Aces history—”

“--Bigger than the time it was discovered Stephen had a secret burner twitter where he mocked all of the coaches (including our own) fashion choices, he kept using said twitter, and is currently over at a million in fines for calling refs and the commissioner stupid?” says Sofia “literally married to the man in question” Thantley.

“--Bigger than all fourteen of the cocaine scandals?” says Tom

“—Bigger than the inevitable scandal that front office faked arranged a relationship with a pop star that even non-hockey people have heard of to hide from the fact that I’m gay?” Kent chimes in.

“Yes, actually. This would be bigger than all of those, because you’re fucking your coworker. Like, we’re clearly the most unprofessional front office in the league because part of the interview process involves us having to dodge Stephen with a Nerf gun”

“—that’s a legitimate test to see how you handle conflict, split second decisions under high pressure circumstances, and joie de vivre” Stephen Thantley, who has made more money since the conversation started than the rest of the room combined will ever make in their life.

“BUT, unlike the Zimmerman conflict, this is going to involve something that inevitably effects your on-ice relationship and your relationship with the front office. What’re you going to do Kent if Scrappy gets hurt on the ice? Will it be like any other teammate? What if Scraps gets traded?” Maxine explains.

“I mean. If Scrappy gets hurt on the ice, I’m going to destroy the other team with my sick goal scoring, and if Scrappy gets traded onto another team, I’m going to destroy _his_ team with my sick goal scoring, and either way what’ll probably happen is Renee will insult my dick on twitter. Again.”

**Dec 2016 CONT Pt 6 CONT**

Let’s unpack some of that.

**VI. Scandals and Other Boring Melodrama**

RENEE AND THE LOST YEAR OF 2015

**March 2015**

“Do you think we’re going to be happy?” Kent was curled over on his side so Scraps couldn’t see his face. It is probably a good thing since it meant Kent couldn’t see his shocked face. This was the most vulnerable Scraps had ever seen him and Scraps had seen the benders of “Lost in the Finals 2012”, “Didn’t Make the Playoffs of 2013”, “Were The Favorite And Got Swept in The Second Round of 2014”, and whatever the fuck this bender was.

There is exactly one person who might have seen Kent more vulnerable, who might know him better, one person who could possibly, maybe, understand Kent better when Scraps knows Kent in every possible way. There’s one other person, probably, besides Parse, who knows what exactly what happened in December at Samwell

Scraps felt a jolt of anger at the ghost that haunted their bed and it almost made him want to tell his best friend/lover/guiding light “No, you’re probably not going to be happy— you’re not even going to try.” But Scraps tried to never be cruel, so, just runs his hands down Kent’s expanding ribs and curls up near him. He is surprised when Kent turns to face him.

“I mean it. I don’t think--- there’s no way this works out in the long term. We should just cut our losses. Call it quits.”

“Do you want to stop? Say the word, we’ll stop.”

Kent’s slow exhale disturbs his cowlick. It is the best and worst part of Scraps that he finds it adorable. After a bit of silence, Kent shakes his head. “But you should want to stop.”

“I don’t,” Scraps says

“Why?”

“Because I like you.” There’s more to it than that. _You’ve brought me my happiest moments. We know all each other’s weak points and we will never press down. I would fight anyone and everyone for you; I’ve decided to start with the entire league_. But. He doesn’t know how to say these things, so he won’t. He strokes Kent’s side and covers a bruise from the game yesterday with his hand.

“You shouldn’t. I make people worse,” Kent refuses to make eye contact when saying this.

“You don’t. I am not… worse because of you. Ask your lineys—”

“I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but there’s more to life than hockey.”

“What are you even trying to do? What point are you trying to make? Just go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning”

Kent’s not, is the thing. Renee, however, is sitting on his couch drinking coffee.

“Saw your lover on his way out” she says. “He seemed pretty chill and freaking out at the same time.”

“He is very skilled” Scraps says.

“He didn’t stay around.”

“I did not think he would” he says, which is truthful. “I do not mind” which was also sorta truthful because one, they needed to talk about this, but two, he really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you okay with that?” she asks, gently. It’s not that people are never gentle with Scraps. It is just usually when they are, they are slowly trying to explain things to him.

Scraps shrugs. It sums it up.

**Like, June of 2015**

“Hey.” says the woman sitting cross-legged on Scrappy’s couch at 7 AM on a Saturday. She is very, very pretty and Kent tries not to feel intimidated. According to the response on that magazine cover, he too is very, very pretty.

“Hey.” says Kent and attempts to not let his failure to not be intimidated leak into his voice. This is not the first time this woman has seen him walk out of Scraps room. He hopes this will be last.

“So, how do you know Scrappy?” he asks. Scrappy actually had an odd way with beautiful woman, he dated Kate-The-Beautiful-Professor and got arrested with Miss Nevada once. Kent also had a way with beautiful women, but generally it happened with a lot lying and at least two shots of tequila.

“Mikheil and I are neighbors,” she says slowly. “We work out together in the summers, when the schedule allows it”

Kent does not say “Oh my god, you’re the stripper that whose business he’s investing in and also apparently learning to pole dance from” but like. He thinks it. He apparently thinks it pretty hard because her eyes narrow at him.

“Mikeil is like, a really good guy.” She says, menacingly. It’s a pretty innocuous statement so Kent is amazed how much venom she puts into it.

“Yeah,” he says because it’s true. “Scrappy is pretty much the best guy I know”

“You’re leaving before he gets up.”

“To be fair, he makes a terrible breakfast. I love the guy, but man, he cannot cook.”

“You should stick around anyways” she says.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.” Kent answers. He’s not sure why he’s being honest. He’s not sure if this chick watches hockey and is soon going to blackmail Kent for thousands of dollars. But she cares about Scraps. So.

“Do you think you’re too good for him?” she says, even more menacingly somehow.

“No. Scraps deserves someone really good. The kind of girl that can make him happy.” She stares at him, calculatingly. She’s assessing him, but whatever, Kent’s honest for once.

“You should…” she starts. Pauses. “You should consider therapy, honestly.”

“Had my first session two weeks ago, actually,” he says, “I’m working on it.” 

**Like, September 2015**

Scraps wakes up to an empty bed. He’s not really surprised. Or disappointed, even. He knew this is what was going to happen, and he had decided it was worth it. Scrappy still thought it was worth it. What he liked about sex—the intimacy, the trust, the ability to make your partner feel good—was good even if Parser didn’t stay till morning. It’s just while he’s happy with being Kent’s friend and sex partner, Scrappy kinda wants to make Parse breakfast in the morning and have a reserved night each week to watch one of those cheesy movies Parse says he hates but always cries just a little at the end.

Part of Scrappy knows he should probably tell Parse these things although he should probably get in the habit of calling Parser “Kent” outside of sex.

…naw, that was too weird for him.

But if Scrappy told Parser, Parse’d freak. Parse doesn’t do emotions? Or he does too many emotions? One of the two, or possibly both, but either way Parse didn’t really process stuff like that well. Everyone on the team had noticed he was off his game since December, but only Swoops and him knew to draw the connection of “visiting friend at frat party right before game” and not “broken point streak”.

What a mess.

It’s not that Renee’s job was to clean up his mess or anything, but she did usually help. She said it was “mutually beneficial” which apparently meant she was happy to learn new things to tease him about and solve what, to her, were easily fixable problems and Scrappy got a second opinion because his first instinct were often wrong.

Renee solved the mystery of why he had such a hard time getting second dates years and years ago when she burnt one of the outfits the boys assured him would “get him laid.” Apparently, it was “a crime against fashion” and “a vaguely misogynistic t-shirt involving several euphemisms, that she, a stripper, didn’t get.

Renee solved the mystery of what he should do with Parse: “break up with him.”

“But I don’t want to,” Scraps whined.

“Then you’re going to break your own heart,” Renee answered.

“Hngh.” Scraps said, eloquently into the pillow.

Maria, who wasn’t at work for once doing scary lawyer things, sighed, sat down, and handed Scraps a mug. Scrappy clung to the mug, because while he could handle Renee’s chirping, Maria’s nice, gentle logic was impossible to argue with.

“Are you happy right now with the way things are?” she asks.

“…yes” he says. He could be, like happier. But. He wasn’t unhappy like this.

“Then it’s okay to keep on doing what you’re doing.”

“Mary!” Renee shouts apparently betrayed by her girlfriend’s disloyalty.

“Look. A relationship works when both people choose each other. But sometimes you don’t get a choice. You just love someone. And you can break it off and get over it or you can do your best, but that’s it.”

“Sometimes,” Renee points out “people are bad for each other”

“Yeah,” Maria says, “but sometimes people are just there for each other. Good, bad, or indifferent. Mikheil isn’t going to stop loving… this person. Mikheil can’t stop working with this person. So long as having sex with this person isn’t secretly reminding Mikheil of what they can’t have, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Mikheil accepting what he can have”

“Love is a big word,” Scraps says.

“You’re a big guy. And you forget, I’m still friends with Kate. She uh. Wasn’t the quietest after the break-up”

“She broke up with me!” Mikheil protests

“Well. Not after four drinks, she didn’t. This is off-topic anyways. Mikheil, if you never went on a date with… this guy, if he started dating another guy, how would you feel?”

“Does this guy treat him well?”

“Yeah. He’s hypothetically really happy.”

“If he’s happy then I’m happy.”

“You wouldn’t be jealous or feel like you failed?” Maria asks. She’s saying this calmly, like she can pull apart Scrappy’s feelings and make them make sense.

Scrappy takes a second. Parse holding hands with a guy, smiling. Parse calling his guy like the other guys call their WAGS. Parse wearing matching costumes with some guy.

“I would be okay with it” Scraps says at last. “I think. Maybe not if on team, but if some random? I would be good.”

Renee makes a face, but Maria just nods. The sit there, quiet on the couch.

“Look. It was hard falling in love with Renee. Realizing I wasn’t straight, as a Hispanic female attorney in the RSR old boy’s club… It was a lot. I felt overwhelmed. And it’s not—I just don’t believe in love at first sight.”

Scraps wasn’t sure if he was missing something or mistranslating something. “But?”

“But I laughed really hard on our first date. There was the most gorgeous girl I’d ever seen--” At this Renee hid her face under her hands “--who just walked up to me at the grocery store and gave me her number. And then, when I worked up the courage to text, we were both crazy busy, and after a week where she was working the closing shift and I was busy with trial, we just said fuck it and got Waffle House, at like, 2 AM. And she made me laugh really, really hard. And it wasn’t love at first sight—but we made ourselves, love, you know? It took a lot of scheduling. A lot of weird dates. And now we’re here” She waves her hand to gesture—either at her amazing long-term girlfriend or their tasteful shared apartment or their shared adopted giant hockey player who they were trying to teach feelings.

“I didn’t really have anyone” Renee starts. Apparently, they were making speeches, that was cool. “I mean, I love my girls, but sex work can make it hard to make friends. I was, like, 21 and my parents hadn’t spoken to me in four years, and a lot of my friends did meth, and I had all these big dreams with just a paycheck and a work schedule which would let me take like two community college classes at a time. It wasn’t just that it’d be hard for Maria if she was out, it’s also like, I couldn’t be out, because I didn’t have a lot of people to be out to. And it’s really scary, when you’re lonely and used to being alone, to like to make someone the center of your world. But sometimes, you just have to care about each other. Care, and hold onto them tight.”

Scraps can’t take it anymore. He takes his phone out and searches a name, then scrolls until he finds a picture of him where’s not wearing identifying gear. “Do you think he’s prettier than me???” Understanding his vague allergy to feelings, they take the phone and wince.

“He’s like a male Alicia Owens.” Renee says.

“She was my sexual awakening.” Maria says. “I’m a lesbian, but uh. Is this your competition Mikheil?”

“He looks like he’d have a tiny dick” says Renee, loyally. “The hot ones always do. If The Guy™ is making you compete with pretty boy, it’s probably because The Guy also has a tiny dick.”

“We sleep together,” he reminds Renee “his dick is nice.” Maria and Renee don’t watch men’s hockey because apparently, it’s “violent” and “boring”, but they can’t miss all the posters around town with Kent’s name and face on them. Still, it’s nice that they pretend.

“Spiritually, he has a very small dick, then,” Renee says. “no one gets mad if you say “spiritually” in front of it.”

**Rewind December 2016^7**

“front office faked a pop-star relationship”

**Summer-Fall of 2014**

“Hey, I’m Kent, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Mmmm yeah, you’re super gay, I see why our managers did this.” Bianca “Bee” Summers says looking at your phone.

Kent blinks and then takes a moment to get angry. Did front office fucking leak their own secret that they were trying to cover up? Kent wasn’t a lawyer, but he could read between the lines. Thantley mentioned that his security team “looked into anything that could cause the team trouble in the future” and then Kent’s agent mentioned that front office wanted him to show the new starlet resident the sites and “to make it as public as possible, couldn’t hurt your brand to be seen with her”, 1 + 1 = 2.

Especially when it _could_ hurt his brand, Jesus. Bee Summers didn’t have the discography to support 300 shows a year, she wasn’t Britney. What she did have was a nervous breakdown on a tour and then a _lengthy_ stay in rehab—something which Kent thought didn’t particularly add to his story.

But Bee also had big blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on her nose, she was an American Sweetheart since being a tween on the Disney channel and she apparently had sex appeal ~~(although not Britney’s _stellar choreography_~~ ~~and _excellent core strength_~~ ) if his teammates comments towards her since her Vegas stay was announced were any indication.

Belatedly, Kent realized he should probably respond. “I’m not gay”

“Yeah-huh” Bee responded

“Nuh-huh. I think I would know.” He’s both annoyed.

“You haven’t looked at my tits _once_ ” she says, tapping furiously on her phone all the while.

Kent makes a little uh-huh noise and then doesn’t say anything, because he hadn’t and also because at this point, he’s realized if she says anything, everyone’s just going to assume she’s jealous because he rejected her. So. Nothing to prove here.

She finishes up whatever message she’s typing and looks up briefly. “It’s not like, I care. I’m here ‘cuz a little gay panic myself”

“That’s not why I’m here, but now you have me interested”

“Yeah, apparently “making out with my best friend” doesn’t fit into “my narrative around recovery” and “alienates my fanbase” which, whatever.”

“So now you’ve been told to show your face in public with a hockey player?” he asks skeptically. He thought music was kinda like fashion and theater and A-OK for the gays, but he knew a thing or two about alienating fanbases.

“Mhmm. And try to show me ‘fitting into Vegas’ with a new cute guy.” She says.

“I am pretty cute,” Kent flirts.

“You’ll do,” She looks at him up and down. “Yeah, you’ll do”

Later that night, she spills not one, not two, but three glitter shots on him. When he wakes up the next day, his sister has texted him six fucking articles about the two of them. In like, news publications which people actually read. Which meant that this raised the national profile of the team, which meant he was going to have to do it again.

He checks his voicemail and plays a recording of Bee crying about how much she missed her best friend and how she just wanted someone who loved her _and_ liked her. Cool. Thanks management.

**Rewind December 2016^6**

“…Stephen with a nerf gun” (2015)

**Who The Fuck is Stephen Thantley 2014 to present**

Hey Aces fans!! You might know that there’s been a change in leadership. This is generally considered to be a good thing—Bob [Nicholson] was uh. Not good!

What do I mean by not good? He won worst owner in the league last year [1]. He’s the guy who traded all your faves away [2]. And apparently, there was a lot of conflict between him and our beloved captain Kent Motherfucking Parson and as _nice_ as it would be to see him walk away, I’d hate to see him leave a lot more than this asshole.

The job of an owner is mostly to shut up and sign checks. They pay for a lot of stuff—from marketing to arena maintenance. The problem comes when a billionaire loses their money—like when someone heavily invested in Vegas real estate gets caught in the crash and never recovers. Then the owner’s kind of useless and just desperate for seller.

So, a new billionaire has decided to spend more money than all of us combined will see one tenth of? Will this one be a good owner?

Well. Not by the shut up and sign checks metric. The new owner is named Stephen Thantley. He’s 45, American, and apparently never seen a hockey game until two years ago. He got his money through a weird series of start-up capital from his first web company, performances of a short fund he previously ran that cashed out in 2009 after he made a killing saying that real estate firms like Bob’s were gonna go bankrupt, and spent the last five years revamping RSR, which is now the most profitable casino on the strip. He’s made an app that’s worth over a billion dollars—sports betting natch—and is currently in the middle of a suit with the mcfucking supreme court to change national law. [3]

He’s also, uh, weird as fuck and known for his LOUD opinions. He’s apparently buying a team to spite either a Canadian billionaire who refused to deal with him after declaring him “morally bankrupt” or Mark Cuban who may or may not have called his tie tacky. For the record, the tie is, in fact, tacky [4]. He’s got a smoking hot, much younger wife who got her BA in both statistics and business at Harvard and her MBA from Stanford—she’s now president of the team, apparently knowing the most about hockey out of everyone Stephen knows, having watched her first hockey game six years ago [5].

The good news is that Stephen is actually making some right moves. He’s completely overhauled the front office, there’s postings right now for new people in every section (especially PR, so maybe we will FINALLY be rewarded with Some Good Kent Content) and he actually believes in analytics and is assembling professionals hallelujah, thank Jesus. He’s already drafted different than the old front office, favoring a faster younger D-man who’s a POC to boot rather than draft some hulking lead hands good ol’ Ontario boy. And, this is important, he’s already spoken more warmly about the players, particular Actual Ray Of Sunshine Kent Parson who he praises as “reminding [Stephen] as a younger version of himself” [6] (he says this v. creepily, but it’s like the highest compliment he probs knows how to offer sooo…)

On the other hand, the man appears to actually be insane and I think there are going to be some insane people hired. Look at this glassdoor review of a recent interview:

Good interview until he SHOT ME WITH A NERF GUN and then, 3 hours later told me that I wasn’t going to go farther because I “handled poorly under pressure.” [7]

When asked, here was his response:

[a gif plays of Stephen Thantley, new Aces owner, getting asked about the quote nerf gun rumor. Stephen answers: 1) you know, it’s really important to me to find people who can work under pressure 2) I mean it, half of the screw ups I see start off as a small thing that spirals because they don’t know how to handle it 3) So I like to test my interviewers by throwing them a curve ball and seeing how they can handle it 4) It’s more of a spiritual nerf gun than a literal one]

And then multiple interviewees over the past six years with Stpehen’s various ventures confirmed, no no, it’s a literal nerf gun

TLDR: Cheap, kind of asshole billionaire is dead, long live new asshole, eccentric billionaire?

**December 2016^8**

“You’re really not concerned at all about the fallout of this?” Maxine, a smart person, asked stupidly.

“90ish percent of Georgians think gays should not be accepted. Of course, we care about fallout,” Scraps says.

“You don’t have to be” Stephen says “we’re not going to trade away Kent Parson’s boyfriend, even though we totally have rules against fraternization and could sue.

“Gee,” Kent drawls. “Thanks.”

“I’m just saying that you’re the most private, brand-conscious player I’ve ever met.” Maxine says. “I don’t get why now. Is this about Jack Zimmermann? I’m trying to figure out what angle you want to take with this to make this worth it.”

**VIII: This Is Not About Jack Zimmermann**

**(okay, but it is a little bit)**

**About 2009, From 2014**

Here’s the thing about Zimms:

  * If Kent got sucking a dude’s dick, it’d all be over for him. He probably wouldn’t get drafted. All of his Mom’s late-night shifts, all of the hobbies Kelly “chose” not to pursue, all of the cuts and scrapes and shit he’s gotten--- all of it would be for nothing.
  * (Bad Bob, of course, “Uncles” Mario and Wayne, Alicia’s progressive movie star buds--- who wouldn’t say something if Jack Zimmerman went undrafted because he fucked a dude? The world would be watching, and they’d have some very pointed questions… if it was Jack)
  * Kent has dreamed about what he could do with his first NHL paycheck since he learned what money was. He could buy his Mom a house, and Kelly a pony, Mom could quit her second job, do something she actually enjoys. Kent’s not going to college—but Kelly is really smart.
  * (Jack once told a reporter he’d play for hockey for free)
  * Kent doesn’t have a lot going for him besides hockey. That’s okay because sometimes he feels like hockey is 60% percent of him
  * (hockey might be like 90% of Jack)
  * Kent stuttered the first time he met Bob Zimmerman. Kent hadn’t been that uncool in years. Kent had spent _weeks_ trying to convince Jack that, you know, Kent thinks he’s a decent dude and a fantastic hockey player, no he doesn’t care about his parents, only to meet the man and trip over his own tongue
  * (Jack and Kent’s first fight after becoming Jack-and-Kent is over the nickname “Dad Bob”)
  * Kent is pretty sure that Bad “Major Influence in the NHL” Bob knows what Kent does to his son in their basement
  * (Jack says nothing about what Kent babbles during sex. Kent is grateful.)
  * Kent likes Jack best when he’s sober. Jack likes Jack best when he’s high.
  * Kent should probably resent Jack. Jack with the happy family life and the loads of money. Jack whose name comes first in the JackKent, Zimmerman-Parson monstrosity to which Kent has become known as to draft scouts and friends alike. Kent should resent the one player on the team who’s better than him, the obstacle that means he won’t wear a C. Kent, if anything, wishes he could get closer. He wants to set up shop between Jacks ribs and live between each breath. Kent wants Jack all the time, and he wants to be near Jack all the time.
  * (Kent gets drafted alone. Jack screens his phone calls)
  * Jack does everything with this like intense kind of focus. Girls at parties say it’s scary and their teammates call it the hockey robot laser eyes, but Kent thinks it’s the hottest thing in the world. Jack looks at him, and it’s like Kent has stopped being transparent.
  * (Later, Kent would through all of their moments. _Was he high?_ How bad was it, Jack’s whatever-made-him-like-this, the first time they fucked? How bad was it the night after they won that game 6-1 and they spent the entire talking to each through the night, breaking things down and dreaming about the bigger, better NHL games? How bad was it the second time fucked? When Kent brought him back to Buffalo? The awkward dinner the one time when his Mom made the trip to see a game? The third time they fucked? Kent knew that Zimms needed some help. Fuck it, Kent helped count the pills. Kent calmed him down that one time when Jack thought he lost the bottle. The Xanax and the shaky hands and the dark circles that roosted under his eyes after evenings when commenters drew parallels to Bad Bob didn’t feel different from Kent’s bright anger and nail marks on his palms from his own fingers and the way Kent’s body went still when he was furious. Kent was careful about his problems. Jack wasn’t careful about his.)
  * Kent drank at parties because everyone else did; because he wanted to savor the moment; because he was fucking ace at beer pong. Jack drank at parties because it was the easiest cure to his social anxiety.
  * It should’ve felt sordid or sleazy maybe--- the fumbling of two teens away from home for the first time since summer camp, the frantic groping of two boys who knew what the consequences were. But Kent remembers the 2 AM chats and the surreal quality of those 34 summer days; there was nothing but pure fantasy when they were by the lake, when they could pretend that the real world could never reach them, and they could have this precious, perfect moment forever. The days felt unreal, but the relationship did not, sometimes Kent felt like that ZimmsandParse was realer than either of them.
  * Jack glared at their teammates who made fun of Kent in quick-tongued Québécoise and boarded the people who checked Kent too hard and he taught Kent how to tie a tie, how to swallow scotch stolen from his father’s stash without wincing, he taught Kent to focus, and how to play through the pain, and how to give a good blowjob, and how to trust someone to have your back. Kent learned that red Gatorade was Jack’s favorite, learned way too much about WWII from boring documentaries on the road, learned how to handle someone having a panic attack, learned how to count back from five in French, how to get up at 5 to go running, how to deflect the questions he couldn’t handle,
  * Jack-and-Kent said their secrets quietly to each other, figured out how to talk in the art of coded smile, told each other as much as they could with artful blinking. Jack-and-Kent kissed local girls and traded handies and were best friends and a bit more. It would be awful, they told each other, if they got caught, if something happened, maybe we should stop, before it costs us everything.
  * (Kent, later, would tell Jack _I miss you_. That’s not what Kent told Jack during sex towards the twilight of their relationship, but it’s close, just one four-letter word off. Jack, later, would tell his boyfriend _it wasn’t anything more than physical hockey_ )
  * If Kent knew that, he might agree. Yeah, it was physical hockey. Hockey, which was their entire fucking life and most of their future, which gave them countless bruises, which they returned back to again and again and again.
  * (The best thing about hockey, Jack at 17 and Kent at 24, would say is the adrenalin rush of winning. The physical push of the game and the challenge of thinking quickly with knives strapped to your feat. The best thing about hockey, Jack at 25 and Kent at 17, was the feeling of being part of a team, succeeding and failing for the game that you love, the satisfaction and the closeness that only war and sport can get you.)
  * Kent would be flattered, maybe. _He was just hockey_. Yeah dude, he might say, you literally almost killed yourself over hockey. And then you decided to do it for your career. Kent would be fucking thrilled if Jack saw him as hockey. Kent would be thrilled if Jack came back.
  * (Kent did not, in fact, get over it. _A couple of hook ups in juniors_. _Your best friend they call rival. Your lover, for whom you risked everything for, who tried to kill himself. The comparison made by every fucking reporter. The best captain you’ve ever known. A ghost. A measuring stick. The boy who you risked everything for._ Jack went to rehab. Jack went Samwell. Jack went to a herd of people who told him it was going to be okay. Kent went first in the draft and went to the Stanley Cup Finals and went home alone to his cats and commemorative jerseys. Jack has not once said _I miss you too_. Nah, Zimms, he’s never gotten over it.)



**2015 March**

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: dude

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: I say this with all the respect in my heart and all acknowledgement of the neurotypical heteropatriarchal constructs of professional sports

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: after hearing about Epikegster 2k14, I have to tell you

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: please consider therapy

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: (btw you gave me this number after 2012 when you were the fifth person that week who y’know)

Shitty??? Zimms teammate: also, sweet goal against Seattle, brah

Me: thanks.

**2015 August**

It’s his Mom’s 44th birthday. Kent calls because he’s a dutiful son and because he keeps imagining what it’d be like if he had a baby at his age right now and it freaks him out.

It’s fine, the usual stuff, she finished up nursing school when he left for the Q, and Kent’s offered several times now to let her quit her job, especially since Kent bought her a house, but Mom apparently likes her work and likes gossiping about her coworkers even more.

“--- anyways, when are you going to marry a nice boy and give me some grandkids”

“I’m sorry, when am I going to fucking _what_ ”

“Kent Victor Parson, watch your language with your mom”

“The last time you acknowledged I liked dick was when you were _shouting at me_ for not getting over my boyfriend’s overdose _four hours_ after it happened because the nearest thing to the implication of the gay would be bad for my _career_! I’m allowed to swear!”

“I said I was sorry,” Kendra complains.

“No! That’s not a thing you said! We’ve literally gone six years without acknowledging it!”

“Well, I am you know,” Kendra says. “Sorry.”

“Why now?”

Kent can hear rustling in the corner. “I guess” Kendra says. “I was just afraid. I didn’t want you to be hurt”

“Mom, I’m a hockey player.”

“You know what I mean. As a parent, you want to protect your kids from the kind of stuff that could break them. Or at least, prevent them from walking into traffic”

“--See, the homosexuality = death is really one of the reasons why I’m surprised by this conversation”

“Kent, let me finish a goddamn sentence. You were small for your age and you played with bad gear til you got the scholarship. And I just didn’t want to see you get hurt anymore. I thought people would hurt you. But I think I just ended up hurting you. And I’m sorry. If I could go back in time, I would’ve handled 2009 differently,” his Mom says.

“I don’t really know what to do with this at this point. But, I guess I accept your apology?” Kent says. “Have you considered therapy?”

**2016—after the cup**

“So, uh. Jack Zimmermann. Best friend and line mate. Bigger, dark hair.” Scraps starts. And finishes. He’s had questions before. But. Parse was private. But, apparently, seeing the cup raise… apparently Zimmermann wasn’t private? Scraps remembered Boston 2014. Scraps remembered, more importantly, Providence 2014 a day later.

Scraps was cool in this undefined, uncharted area where now when they sleep together there’s actually sleeping before and/or after. He got what he wanted, which was mostly Kent in the morning, awake but at his least “on”, drinking coffee while Scraps made breakfast. He liked hearing Kent’s half muttered comments on the news which he read on his phone and he liked looking at Kent, who was usually reserved but made a lot of fork pointing when one of their teammates said something stupid on social media. That was all, Kent, in his home, happy and safe and with Scraps. 

But if what Kent saw in those rare quiet hours was Jack Zimmermann…

Scraps didn’t think it would be a dealbreaker. But it would be. A thing.

It Was A Thing.

Kent was apparently collecting his thoughts while Scrap’s had his inner speech, but now finally answered, “Yeah, I guess you could say I have a type.” He paused. He sipped his coffee. He took a bite of (okay, Scraps could admit it) rubbery eggs. “You’re pretty different, though. If you’re wondering”

“Oh?” Scraps said.

“I mean, you and Jack kind of look alike, although he’s a bit… prettier whereas you’ve got the whole rugged handsomeness thing. But also… Jack was an obsession. It was like being on a fire. He was the only thing I think I thought about. It was hockey with Jack then hooking up with Jack and training with Jack and getting drafted with Jack… it was a lot.”

“Oh.” Scraps doesn’t really know what words Kent would use to describe their thing, but, to borrow a phrase from one of Virty’s books he claims is helping him learn English, it’s probably not “an inferno of passion.”

“But like, the thing is. It was everything, and it wasn’t always good. We would scream at each other on the bench and then score like six goals and then we’d get drunk at a party and then we’d scream at each other in the morning over whose idea it was to sit on each other’s laps…” Kent trails off. “There were a lot of highs. And a lot of lows. When it was good, I was giddy with it, when I was bad, I wanted to fucking burn down Quebec.” He chuckles. Scraps does not think that it was a joke.

“You couldn’t pay me to be 17 again and in love with a dude, who was probably high half the time. Our relationship was just him and me and the expectations of the entire Canadian public and our weird hockey subconscious projections and our weird fantasies of what we thought each other really meant.”

“I like this, just the two of us. Where we make each other laugh. I like being around you, it makes me feel… warm inside. I picked my fucking apartment out of Interior Design magazine. This,” Kent says, waving his fork around, “is the best, realest thing I have.”

“Oh.” Scraps says. They eat their eggs one handed, their fingers intertwined beneath the table.

  1. **December 2016 ^8**



“Angle? There’s no angle.” Kent says, clenching the arm rest, gritting his teeth. “He’s important to me and he makes me happy. There’s your fucking angle.”

Wordlessly, Stephen pulls out a bottle of scotch from underneath his desk.

“Do you want to come out?” Maxine asks. “Are there any grand gestures we should prepare for or make a photomontage of?”

 **“** Grand gestures are for rom-coms” Kent says. “Despite all evidence, everyone in this room is an adult.”

Sofia points at her husband. “Stephen preformed a grand gesture for me,” she smiles a little bit to herself at the memory.

“She was briefly a consultant for RSR,” Stephen clarified. “I fired all of her idiot team members and asked her out once the contract expired.”

“Deeply romantic,” Sofia nodded solemnly. “Although I will say, considering sports PR experience with openly gay athletes, it’s always been a post-retirement minor it player thing or Jack Zimmerman.”

“Well, I’m not Jack Zimmerman,” Parse starts. “So.”

Scraps interrupts, because avoiding the Jack Zimmerman Inferiority Spiral was a skill acquired many years ago. “We do things for each other. They’re just not grand. No good for slideshow.”

**IX. The Gestures**

**Spring of 2015**

“Hey, fat fuck, why don’t you go suck off Parson’s cock? It’s the only reason why you get any minutes anyway.”

Kent bites his tongue. Yes, he could easily go over there and shut pylon #26 up. Scraps was a great hockey player who was also great at sucking Kent’s dick, thank you very much. But defending Scraps’s manhood wouldn’t actually help. Scraps would have to fight his own battles.

Scraps mutters something in Georgian to and wins the face-off. Unfortunately, it turns out it to be this whole _thing_. See, #26’s line mate happened to be mic’d up. And then it’s more stale takes on homophobia in hockey. Sports journalist are a bit like goldfish, where the media seems to turn around and forget bigotry exists because of some rainbow-colored tape, only to turn around in what has to be fake shock when a _hockey player_ makes a statement _that might make the gays feel bad_.

Really, what’s the point about making a big deal out of this again? The Schooners say sorry and bury the fuck, Scraps exaggerates his accent when making a vague comment about sportsmanship and/or hockey being for everyone so that the Georgian media can say one thing and Americans can say another, and Kent practices his smiles in the mirror so they can’t find a trace of fear when someone mentions the idea of a dude maybe being interested in Kent’s dick. It’s all over in two weeks.

Well. Almost over.

They run into each other, crossing paths outside PR’s office. Scraps for continuing The Incident check ins, Kent because he is the Aces’s golden goose and if he goes politely, sometimes they let him choose fun projects. They complete the requisite bro handshake and Kent apologizes for the whole… media mess.

Scraps just blinks. “What are you sorry about?”

“Just that, like, I get it, the media narrative around me, probably gets frustrating.” Kent’s story, after all, used to center around the scion of Bad Bob Zimmerman. Kent knows living in shadows and living in the shadow of someone else’s shadow.

Scraps shakes his head, slightly furiously, slightly like a dog, “Every time we’re on ice together is good for me. Every time we’re on separate lines, I get to see most talented player in hockey.”

“You’re _really_ good Scrappy. You’re not just here because of me”

“Eh. Maybe, maybe not. Not worst thing in the world to have generational player make me look good. ‘S the best thing in the world to make generational player Kent Parson look even better.”

“You really don’t mind?”

And Scraps shoots Kent a look which is maybe fond or maybe exasperated or maybe fondly exasperated like he’s reassuring Kent’s rookie nerves again or maybe just laughing because, you know, there has historically been some yes-homo dick touching between the two of them or because Scraps’s uncle was legit famous. But whatever expression Kent can’t decipher only lasts for a moment as Scraps soon smiles big, wide, and honest at Kent and says:

“Tell PR to save Parson merch for me, yeah?”

And wanders off into the distance of MFG Arena

**Fall 2013**

“Kva” Parse says. Scraps nods. “rats” Scraps winces just a little bit. Kent says fuck.

“I appreciate your effort” Scraps says. And he does! But Kent’s pronunciation of his last name, is, uh, bad. “But you can really just call me Scrappy. The announcers all do. The coaches do”

Kent rolls his eyes. “Cool story, bro. I’m going to fucking nail it.”

**Fall 2016**

Jeff plops down on the seat next to Kent on the plane, his usual travel companion, Singh, injured. Leaning over and getting way into Kent’s personal space, Swoops takes careful look at what Kent’s piece of paper.

“Bro. Why you scribbling. Art time?”

Kent, used to a younger sibling, sighs and just shows Jeff the phone.

“…is it Georgian? Are you trying to learn Georgian?”

“No. But I want to write a few basic things and read a few words.”

“I mean, it’s pretty, but I gotta say, my faith in your language acquisition skills are not _super_ high.”

“Fucking watching and learn, loser. Mikheil Kvaratskhelia. Boom. I did that. Flawless pronunciation. I’m going to write the nicest fucking note, just watch.”

**2014- Spring**

“Just leave me to die, Scrappy. There’s no hope. I’m going to live in this dark room forever until my concussion finally succeeds in killing me and then Kit and Purrs will eat my face off.”

“Shh” Scraps says. “Eat soup. I wanna listen to podcast on big cats.”

**January 2 nd, 2016**

Scraps blearily opened his eyes. Then he closed his eyes. Then he opened them again because pretending it didn’t happen probably wouldn’t fix the “we got drunk and fucked again???” problem.

Just like pretending it didn’t happen didn’t stop it the fourth time. Or that time where it was really “we got sad and fucked again???” or that time where it was really “we got happy and fucked again???”

Because Kent Parson is stubborn, the script goes one way:

Parse will first say: “Jesus. We can’t do this again.” Parser will roll over to look him in the eye. He will have horrible bed hair. Scraps hand will itch to push it back. Parse will continue, “Sorry I fucked up.” Pause. They will stare at each other. Kit and/or Purrs hearing noises from the bedroom will start meowing furiously to get in. The moment will break. Parse will get up to open the door. He will walk out. Scraps will go to the guest room and borrow the generic set of clothes he leaves there. Scraps will leave.

This morning doesn’t seem any different. Kent looks tired. Kent always looks tired these days. Scraps tries to help but anyone on the Aces can tell you what worrying about Parser gets you. Anyways, Kent appreciates more Scraps pushing to clear a path for a goal than a hug.

Scraps would rather give Kent a hug.

Scraps’ wanting to give a hug to a slowly-melting Kent seems to be how they got here, in the boring grey of Kent’s bed. Scraps immediately notices when Kent opens his eyes, blue staring out into the colorless void of the Kent Parson interior decorating palette.

“Jesus,” Parse starts, Scraps already bracing for the Speech™. “We keep doing this. This is kind of fucked up. Are we just like… not capable of _not_ fucking? Tequila makes me slutty, but like. I specifically didn’t drink tequila this time.” Kent blinks up at Scraps, apparently deviating from the script to ask questions.

“I think--” Scraps says as careful as when he approaches a wild animal “—we maybe keep choosing to have sex.”

“Yeah. That’s a choice we keep making. Kind of a shitty one.” Parse waits, but Scraps is really out of things to say to that. “It’s not you. Well. It’s the fact that I’m your captain. And co-worker. And kind of a shitty person. You should probably stop having sex with me.”

“ _You_ could always stop having sex with _me_ ”

“I… probably should.” Parse says this next part like a revelation: “I kind of don’t want to?”

This was off-script. Scraps hadn’t thought about this: “what?”

“I like you, Mikheil. Like, like-like you. I don’t really know what to do with that.”

Scraps kind of got the gist of that. “Kent. This is the stupidest talk I’ve ever had,” he waves his hand to prevent Kent bringing up chicken-fish. “Send me cat pics. Text when lonely. Be with me”

“We’re still… isn’t this unprofessional?”

“Is ‘boyfriends’ worse than ‘fuck friend’?

“I haven’t been a decent boyfriend in a long time. Or maybe ever”

“Parse, we’ve been friends for six years. I know who you are. I want what you can give me.”

“I’m kind of difficult”, Kent Parson warns, in the biggest understatement of NHL history.

“Whoever plucked a rose without spikes?” Scraps is utterly sincere. Kent bursts out laughing.

“That is the gayest---” Kent stops. Swallows what Scraps knows he was about to say. Scraps hand on Kent’s neck, rubs his thumb on the hickey he left on Kent’s chest.

“Parser, let me make you pancakes.” At least today, Scraps thinks. And if you’re saying what I think you’re saying (and Scraps is pretty good at hearing what Kent is saying), tomorrow and the next day and the next.

“Yeah. Okay. That sounds good.”

**December 2016^9 I think**

“I mean. You did _one_ grand gesture for each other.” Tom says.

“We did?” Kent asks, head tilted. Everyone in the room turned their heads to look at him, looks on their faces ranging from disappointment and amusement. Scraps reached over the chair and grabbed his hand. Despite everyone looking, he doesn’t pull back.

“Kent, you were apparently very… when I was hurt,” Scraps says, mouth tweaking upward. “You made some very loud statements about what would happen if they didn’t let you see me.”

“Loud statements, which clued us in on the whole,” Sofia at this point just unclasps her hands and violently gestures at his and Scraps’ entirety, “thing which you have.”

“And here we are now!” Stephen says, three glasses of scotch deep, Tom nursing and looking exhaustedly down at his glass and apparently contemplates his life choices.

“If it was bad news, like permanently really bad news,” Kent starts, quietly. “I wanted to be there when you heard it. Not like an hour later, I wanted to be there when you heard it. I’m sorry for outing us.”

Scraps, gently as always, squeezes Kent’s hand. “Don’t be. I was glad. Even if it meant as soon as I was off medication, I had to be here. I’m glad you were there.”

Maxine asks, “are we done? I think we just confirmed that they’re involved and that nothing changes, and I continue to castrate any untoward speculation. Right?”

Tom shrugs, “there’s really only good evidence vis a vie homosexuality and advanced stats and that’s 90% of what you pay me for. So. Don’t fuck in the locker rooms, boys.”

“Was fucking in the locker room on the table?” Maxine wonders, “it is off the tables. We’ll draft up a statement expressing support, we’ll send you a draft of the statement explaining your… thing so we have it on file, we promise to use the vaguest terms possible. And we’ll see you after the holiday break. I guess.”

“Out of all the meetings I’ve had,” Sofia says. “This was certainly one of them.”

Unsure of next steps, the Aces top brass walks out. It’s two days before Christmas and it’s five days before the next Aces game. Kent helps Scraps with his crutches.

“Come on, Parse” Scraps says to his lover, “I’m afraid Bee is going to steal your cat.”

“I think Maria is the one you have to worry about. Or, stealth pick, your uncle.”

“If Uncle decides to steal your cat, I am not sure what we can do.”

“Host another dinner party, I guess, it lured in these fucks here this time.”

They walk out to the door, talking about possible Taken spin-offs, and drive off to the future.

**X. Epilogue**

“Hello internet land! You might notice slight change of scenery.”

(Camera pans over to reveal a smirking Kent Parson amongst a vineyard and hills)

“We’re on our honeymoon! I can’t wait for Kent to meet the boys.”

“The boys are the goats,” Kent clarifies. “I’m excited, I wanna see if they try to eat my hat.”

Scraps nods solemnly. “I promise, if they eat his hat, I’ll film it.”

(They do, he does, and they lived happily ever after)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the ever lovely Britney Spears's seminal classic Toxic. It turns out 20k is a lot of words just to make a stupid Georgia pun. No ragrets, but like, a little regrets. Still, it taught me discipline so that's a thing. There's a lot of foils done with this and the Check Please comics that I'm at least 15% proud of. My formatting and timeline changed a lot, but I don't have that much discipline to really comb through and edit.
> 
> I have a lot of #thoughts about this and the universe (which had to have A LOT cut out) so if you have anything you want to say, please leave a comment or drop a message at anironicattempt.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] It's getting late (to give you up)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22832389) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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